


Unrequited

by infantblue, kallieflower



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Post-Canon, Resbang 2018, Romance, Smut, a.k.a. soul gets teased to hell because he can't get his shit together, minor jealousy on soul's part, resbang, soul "pines a lot" evans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-23 14:47:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 41,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17082344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infantblue/pseuds/infantblue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kallieflower/pseuds/kallieflower
Summary: Maka is hit with a witch’s curse that compels her to return an unrequited love. It is not in Soul’s favor.





	1. moment of truth

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the giant marshmallow we stuffed with so much crack and ridiculousness that you’ll need a sledgehammer just to get through it—also known as our hellfic for resbang 2018. 
> 
> we are so excited to be a part of this amazing fandom event—a first for both of us!—and we are even more blessed to have been paired with the amazing nori-wings and soulheart as our artists. (seriously: so much internal screaming!) 
> 
> they were forced to swim through the absolute madness that spilled out of our brains and create phenomenal art for it, which you can find linked [here](https://infantbluee.tumblr.com/post/181440801618/nori-wings-happy-resbang-2018-i-cant) and [here](https://infantbluee.tumblr.com/post/181442147153/thiefofblood-unrequited-by-blueinfant-and). be prepared to ugly sob like we did because their drawings are OUT OF THIS WORLD. 
> 
> as for our fic… well, let’s just say it gets a little wild. a thousand heart-shaped thank yous to our betas, as well as all the other lovely people we kidnapped into our discord server that made this process as fun as it was. they saved our lives on the daily. 
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> xo,  
> chloe & kallie

He thinks he screams before she bleeds.

Or maybe she bleeds first and then he screams. It's all a blur to him now.

All he knows is that one second they're casually bantering over what to pick up for a midnight snack once they finish this patrol, and the next he's _drowning_ , blinded, smeared with warmth and liquid and a feeble grip that nearly drops him before he realizes he's fucking _covered in her blood_.

It's barely a flash for him to become human again—barely a blink for him to change from a useless blade to an even more incompetent person—but that fraction of a second feels like fucking hours, and by the time he catches her in his arms, this moment has dragged on for years.

"Maka!" he yells, but there are no consonants, no syllables, just some horrifying, animalistic sound that might be a roar but might also be a wail, and he's holding her too tight, he knows he is, but he can't fucking stop.

A muted gurgle escapes her lips. Crimson rivers dribble down her chin. Her green eyes are so wide, so lively even when filled with pain, and for a moment he hates himself for being relieved that she's still able to look at him when she coughs so hard that her eyes fall shut and they don't open again.

"Hey now, don't fucking pass out on me," he chokes. "Come on, Maka, you've gotta stay awake. Maka. MAKA!" He shakes her body in a panic and only breathes when she coughs a pained, wordless response, her lashes fluttering with quickly draining strength. "That's it, come on. Eyes open, Albarn. I know you're fucking stronger than this. Don't clock out now."

As he speaks through cracks in his lungs, he jerkily shrugs off his jacket so he can press it against the gaping wound on her stomach while also trying not to jostle her as best as he can. Blood soaks through the leather in seconds. Drips onto the empty streets. It coats his skin, his clothes, his fucking soul like iron weighing him down and _god_ , she's so fucking small, where is all this blood even coming from, can she even breathe?

This can't be happening right now. Can't possibly be real. It's a Wednesday, just another Wednesday, and these patrols are supposed to be nothing more than a courtesy. Something born of the Witch Alliance for show, to prove that the DWMA is serious about upholding their side of the treaty.

He and Maka do it every other week. Just two kids and two hours walking up and down the moonless streets of their city to protect it from the dormant monsters that go bump in the night. They usually spend this time arguing over everything and nothing, like the ridiculous, contrary, and absurdly compatible team they are.

Never before has he expected Maka to actually be harmed during one of these pointless shifts, and certainly not to this degree.

Soul scoops her up in his arms, barely able to keep from shattering when she makes a whimpered noise of pain from being shifted. He stumbles over empty words like "don't die" and "just hold on a little longer" and "shit shit shit, please, Maka, _please_."

Before he can attempt to do more than panic and flail like the useless weapon he is by rushing her off to get help, the culprit appears.

"Oh my, I'm sorry about that," says a sugary voice. "I only meant to freeze her, not harm her. It's been a while since I've used active spells, so you'll have to forgive me if I'm a little rusty on the particulars."

It's a witch. Early twenties, auburn hair, and slitted eyes like a cat. She sits perched on a floating broomstick several feet away, her ankles crossed like she's preparing to watch one hell of a show, and the look on her face—calm, if not a little curious, as she watches the blood drip down from Maka's motionless body…

Soul's blood runs cold and black.

This isn't the first time a witch has wandered freely around their city. After Kid announced the DWMA's new alliance with the Witch Order following their help during the Battle on the Moon, seeing witches around in public has become quite common.

It wasn't an immediate thing, of course. Life didn't suddenly become all sunshine and rainbows just because the Academy agreed to stop hunting those who practiced magic. No one was stupid enough to expect it to be easy; after all, thousands of years of fostering speciest vendettas would be impossible to dissolve overnight. As far as Soul and his friends know, their small, gothic city is one of the few places witches feel comfortable openly walking the streets, even now, two years later. They still don't feel safe or welcome anywhere else.

Despite the long overdue peace that came with Kid's first official decree, it was not a smooth transition. The amount of work that was needed to enforce the truce was far more than any of them had anticipated. Some students were miffed that the goal they'd been working towards for years—to create a Death Scythe—would now be moot, and the general public admitted to being unable to disregard their underlying unease when it came to witches. That meant it was incredibly important for the former members of Spartoi, as comrades of the new Lord Death, to hold firm on their actions to enforce the treaty. Protect all citizens fairly, human or witch alike. No exceptions.

That's why Soul and Maka are here in the first place, policing the quiet streets on a school night. The Grand Witch had requested the DWMA's help in limiting speciest hate crimes through regular street patrols, and Maka—always willing to help out Kid in any way she could—had volunteered.

Now she's hurt and Soul can't help the deep, dark, selfish part of him that thinks he'll singlehandedly demolish the alliance himself if she doesn't make it through.

"Get the fuck out of my way before I slice your fucking head off."

The witch's brows shoot up to her hairline. "I thought the treaty prevented you from talking to me like that."

"The treaty merely gives you the same _rights_ as any other human," he growls, "and a murderous bitch is still a murderous bitch, even with the possession of magic."

"I told you it was an accident."

"And I told you to _get the fuck out of my way!_ "

Instead of complying, the witch coils her fingers.

Suddenly Maka is gasping in his arms, writhing, burning, smothered with _pain_ so intense he can feel it sear from her soul into his. He desperately tries to keep her still so she doesn't aggravate her wound even more than she already has, but he's barely three breaths into begging for her to "please stop, don't move, I know it hurts but you have to calm down, Maka, _please_ " when her body goes abruptly limp in his arms, her head lolling to the side.

"Maka? _MAKA!_ " Then, head snapping up and voice like thunder: " _What the fuck did you do to her?_ "

"Hmm, I think I got it right that time. Maybe. Probably." The woman flies around them in a slow, curious circle, like a person trying to approach a stray animal. Soul hisses when she gets too close and she draws back with a laugh. "My, my, I should've known it would be you. I guess that means you're the one who will have to deal with the fallout over the next few weeks. How unfortunate."

Soul's shoulders go rigid. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Relax, little Death Scythe, I haven't seriously harmed the girl. I just cast a little spell." She sighs dramatically. "I'm quite bored, if you must know. This treaty between the witches and the DWMA has left much to be desired, and not being able to play freely with you Death Children is really taking a toll on my sanity."

"Death the Kid created that treaty to _protect_ your kind," Soul hisses. "He did it to make your lives _easier_. To grant you _freedom_. To save you from being _hunted_."

"The baby reaper has done nothing more than eliminated my reason for fun," counters the witch, a hint of bitterness betraying her otherwise jubilant tone. "That girl is a friend of his, is she not? I've heard they were close. I'll admit I hoped that the curse would bind _them_ together, not the two of you, as I've heard that he's relied on her a lot during the first couple years of his tenure. But I should've known better. Not even the gratitude of a god can top a weapon's devotion for his meister."

" _Curse?_ " Soul repeats in horror.

The witch smiles. "There's nothing more amusing than an unrequited love. Especially when it's forced into reciprocation."

Soul doesn't have time for this. Cradling Maka closer to his chest with one arm, he transforms the other into a blade and bares his teeth like the animal he is. " _Move_ ," he thunders.

To his surprise, the witch floats up a couple feet, clearing the path. She flutters her fingers in a wave. "See you soon, little Death Scythe," she croons, but he is already sprinting away.

It is through pure animal instinct and muscle memory that he manages to make it to Kim Diehl's house through the darkened haze that has taken over his mind. He's been to her home once before, and only to drop off a couple documents on behalf of Kid because the pink-haired meister refused to make the trek to pick them up herself.

He doesn't know where he's running, has no idea how to get there, until he's in front of the giant hobbit hole of a house Kim had designed and is pounding relentlessly on the cherry red door.

Soul hears her grumbling on the other side of the wood mere seconds before she opens it, donned in a silk sleep robe and a very irritated expression on her face. "Who the hell is making this much noise at a time like— _oh my god._ Maka!"

"Heal her," is all he manages to choke out as he shoves his way past the witch, leaving a trail of blood into her home.

* * *

She doesn't wake up for a whole fucking week.

During that time, Soul refuses to leave her side and he glares at every witch and every doctor who visits only to be of no help at all.

Each of them say the same useless thing: aside from Maka's worrisome temperature, there doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong with her. Kim heals her wounds on the first day, and another witch scans her for sinister magic to find nothing but a soft glow. And when Maka's fever finally breaks forty-eight hours later, they have no clue as to why she hasn't woken up yet.

Soul becomes increasingly more agitated with every passing second.

On day seven, he is both restless and spent, a dangerous combination for his growing internal rampage. He stares at the stove, trying to work up the effort to cook something when it's just for himself, when he hears a hoarse voice call out to him.

"Soul?"

He whirls around so fast he drops the pan with a clang, nearly whipping it across the floor. "Maka!"

She looks _exhausted_. Her thin body is leaning against the wall like it's taking all her energy to keep from collapsing to the floor, and her oversized sleep shirt barely reaches mid-thigh. Rubbing one fist against her eye, she lets out a small, soundless yawn, and for a moment, Soul is so struck by the sleepy look on her face that he physically forgets to breathe.

Pale green eyes blink up at him, muddled and tired and so fucking beautiful. Her head tilts to the side, shifting her hair over her shoulder and tumbling down her chest.

"Everything okay?" A throaty whisper. Confusion fills her tone.

He chokes on his own spit. Fumbles blindly for a glass of water and rushes to give it to her so quickly that he splashes clear liquid all down his hand. He wants to yank her into his arms but finds himself unable to move, so instead he garbles, "Jesus Christ, Maka, it's about time you woke up! Do you have any idea how worried I've been?"

A small crease forms between her brows. "Have I been unconscious long?" Then she grimaces as she lifts the water to her lips, rolling out what must be a very stiff shoulder. "What even happened? I feel like I just ran back-to-back marathons and then attempted to keep up with Black Star at a party."

"You don't remember?" he asks incredulously. "This goddamn witch tore into your stomach then hit you with some wild mystery spell and you've been out for an entire fucking week. No one could find anything wrong with you—couldn't even find the source of the magic that was heating your body—but you wouldn't wake up."

"I… was hurt?" Confused, Maka presses her free hand to her abdomen and winces. "Oh. Right."

Soul clenches his fists in return. Despite Kim's healing spell, there is no magic fix for a wound that deep. Maka will be sore for a while. There will definitely be a scar. As much as she agonizes over the injury he got when he took that blow from Crona all those years back, his stubborn meister doesn't seem to realize he feels that way pretty much every time she so much as gets a scratch. Which, thanks to her tendency to jump into situations without thinking, happens quite often.

But watching her get a few burns and scrapes as they fight against pre-kishins is nothing compared to the agonizing feeling in his gut when he'd held her limp body in his arms as she bled all over the ground.

The glass slips from her tired fingers and he snatches it out of the air before it can shatter against the ground. He steadies her shoulder with his free hand, bending down to meet her drooping gaze with as little amount of concern as he can manage.

"C'mon, sleepyhead. You must be exhausted," he says softly. "You shouldn't even be out of bed, at least not until a doctor can take a look at you now that you're conscious. Can you crawl back into your room so I can make you something warm to eat or are your legs not cooperating?"

She leans into his side with her full weight in answer. "Shower," she mumbles.

He makes a face. "Maka, you barely have the energy to speak, let alone stand. A shower can wait. You need to rest."

"I feel filthy. Want to wash it all off. Please, Soul?"

He's never been able to say no to her when she begs.

Carrying her into the bathroom is a painful task. Not because she's heavy—she's so far from it that it'd be comical in any other circumstance—but because she's so goddamn sweet and pliable in his arms that it takes an absurd amount of restraint to keep from kissing her all over.

His stubborn, badass meister rarely lets him take care of her. In fact, she usually fights him if he tries. He's had to develop crafty ways over the years to get her to accept his help without making it seem like she was, and that experience has made him an expert in feigning disinterest when in reality she's the only star he ever sees.

But in these rare moments when she curls into him like she wouldn't rather be anywhere else, so trusting and sweet, Soul is putty in her grasp. Useless. At her mercy. Willing to do anything and everything she asks.

He wonders if she even knows it.

Maka prefers to have her skin nearly scalded off during baths, so he sets her on the covered toilet seat to wait while he prepares the tub. Their bathroom has always been tiny, far too small to be shared by two pre-pubescent teenagers and then even _smaller_ as they grew up and he realized just how addicted he was to staring at her legs.

But it has never felt as cramped as it does in this moment, with her gaze burning into his back and the rush of water filling the room like a storm.

It takes every ounce of strength he has just to remember to breathe.

"Okay, it's all set," he says, testing the water with his fingers one last time before shutting off the tap. He begins to turn towards her, saying, "I'll be in the kitchen getting started on making you some dinner, but if you need any _th_ — _h-h-holy shit._ MAKA!" He slaps both his hands over his eyes. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Tired," is all she mumbles. "Can't do it myself. Will you help me?"

"Help you _bathe_?" he squawks. "Are you fucking insane?!"

Instead of hearing her answer, Soul is damned with the deafening sound of her clothes hitting the ground. He almost passes out right then and there.

When he feels her delicate fingers pry his hands away from his head, he yelps and attempts to yank his arms back which only succeeds in making her body press up against his. Her very, very _naked_ body.

Soul tries to speak. Wheezes instead. He feels like she should be slamming his head into unconsciousness with one hit of her absurdly powerful chops, but instead, her body only leans deeper into him, making him stiffen impossibly more than he already has. When his eyes fly open, he realizes that his meister is visibly trembling against his chest, struggling to stay awake in her wearied state.

Despite himself, he begins to soften. Well, mentally at least. How the hell can he deny her this when she's obviously just trusting him to help her like any weapon would?

"F-f-f-fine," he relents in a gruff tone. "But you can't hit me for this later when you're in a more coherent state of mind, alright?"

She barely has the strength to nod.

Helping Maka bathe while trying not to openly ogle her naked body proves to be even more taxing than he anticipated. Helping her change afterwards isn't any less stressful. Drying her hair and feeding her soup also drains more energy than he has to give. But not because she's being stubborn or uncooperative or the least bit difficult.

No, it's more because she's being _too_ compliant. She doesn't fight him once. Doesn't make a single snappy comment. Doesn't recoil when she notices the embarrassingly clear bulge in the front of his pants.

The entire time, she merely stares up at him with these soulful green eyes that seem to burn through his core. Normally, he feels like _he's_ the one who's always watching her while she barely notices him at all, but in this moment, she is one-hundred percent eyes and he is but a caged butterfly in her grasp, unable to escape her gaze and unwilling to try. Her soul might not be as dynamic and all-encompassing as he is used to, but she manages to drown him in it all the same.

"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" he blurts out when the heat in his chest becomes too much.

Maka slowly shakes her head. "You always take such good care of me."

He wonders how his face can feel this hot, this red, when all his blood seems to be occupied much lower. "S-s-shut up," he grunts. "Of course I'm taking care of you. I'm your weapon. That's my job."

"Your job, huh?" Her voice is barely a murmur, a soundless musing. Soul doesn't know how to respond so he bites his tongue and continues toweling through her soft, damp hair.

By the time he finally gets her back into her bed, dry and fed and cleaner than any human has a right to be, his rationality is shot and his self-control is out the window. Which is why, when she tugs on the back of his shirt as he turns to leave her bedroom, he can't find the energy to fight her.

"What?" He can't turn around. He can't. He's a weak, pathetic excuse for a man, and the things he's been thinking over the past couple hours are only more reason why he doesn't fucking deserve her. He never has.

But then she speaks, and her voice is so timid that it physically burns. "Stay?"

He turns.

Her lips press against his, stunning him into stone. When he doesn't immediately react, she slides her hands over his shoulders up to the back of his neck where they tangle in the tendrils of hair that fall down there. She pulls back, just slightly, just enough so he can see the quiet insecurity glowing behind her large green eyes.

"Soul?" Even in a whisper, he can hear her uncertainty, as if there's any fucking chance in hell that his stillness is because he doesn't want her. That he isn't dying for her. That he hasn't imagined this moment every single night for years since they became partners, and the fact that this is happening now all feels like a fucking dream. "Is this… okay? Don't you want me, too?"

When he only trembles against her, she tentatively closes the distance, and this time, he is no innocent bystander.

Her lips are soft, so fucking soft. In all the times he's dreamed about this—and there were a _lot_ of times—he never had any idea what he was doing beyond "don't drool" and "less teeth" and "stop trying to eat her fucking face, you moron." Dreaming about kissing someone without having ever kissed anyone is a weird thing, because it's less technique and all feelings and fantasies and "oh, I wonder what my meister's tongue would feel like right _there_ , or there, or _there_ , god yes, _there_."

But while he can wax poetic about the creamy nature of her mission-marked skin, he has never thought to imagine how fucking perfect her silken lips would feel against his own chapped ones, or how she would gasp into his mouth when his hands instantly snap to her waist as he presses against her, or how weak he would feel in the knees when she shivers beneath his grasp like her whole world has gone up in flames and she never wants to stop.

He's not sure how she ends up beneath him on the bed—oh god, he thinks he might've tackled her—but then she is, and _fuck_ , she's so small, but bright and powerful and larger than life, and he's drowning in her soul, stealing the breath from her lungs just as rapidly as she's stealing his because neither of them seems to have a handle on their movements.

He only peels his lips from hers because her neck looks enticing, and when she cries out and grips his shoulders as her body arcs off the mattress, he thinks he might've died and gone to heaven.

Then, because she is Maka Albarn and Maka Albarn is not one to be outdone, she flips them over so she's the one on top, knees anchored around both sides of his hips, _straddling_ him, and Soul is gaping too much for her to kiss him, so she kisses his jaw instead. Trails her lips across to his ear, then his neck, down to the base of his throat.

Oh, yeah. He's definitely dying.

When she claims as much skin as she can before hitting the frustrating neckline of his shirt, she pulls back a little and slides her tiny palms down his chest, fisting the fabric and tugging slightly.

"Off," she demands.

Soul wheezes. Or something. Probably more like choking. "Whaaaa— _uuhhh_. Nnngg."

Her eyes are muddled with _want_ and _need_ and _now_ in a way that paralyzes his body and what little amount of functional brains he has left. Realizing he's not moving, Maka exhales a breath then sits up, but before Soul can protest, she grabs the edge of her own shirt, says, "Fine, me first," and proceeds to pull it _over her goddamn head_.

Considering he literally just bathed and dressed her like the dutiful weapon he is, he should probably be able to refrain from heaving at the mere sight of his meister without her shirt on. But Soul has always excelled in being an embarrassment and so he can only stare like a brain-dead idiot who can't stop gaping like a fish.

Perfect, rounded breasts. Porcelain smoother than silk. Dozens upon hundreds of tiny scars pattern her skin at varying stages of healing, the most obvious one being the pink mark that extends across her lower abdomen, just missing her belly button. He reaches up to brush his fingertips across the line, making her shudder. Thinking has become impossible.

She's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Soul?" She bites her lip, shy in a way that shouldn't be possible considering she's straddling him and yanked off her shirt like she's done this a million times before. The juxtaposition of her forwardness against her impossibly adorable uncertainty is enough to make his blood liquify into pudding.

Seeming to realize that his speechlessness has less to do with her and more to do with the fact that all his blood has fled south from his brain, her expression softens and she rewards his utter ineptitude with a soft kiss against his jaw. By bending over, the pebbled tips of her breasts brush the front of his shirt and he has to bite back a groan.

"Wait," he blurts out, like a total _idiot_ , and then he stares at her for a moment because he hadn't thought of what he'd say beyond that one word. Isn't really thinking at all.

"No," she whispers against his neck. "No wait. I want you, Soul. Now."

Well, that's certainly not helping his coherency. "M-Maka, we can't," he weakly insists. "You're exhausted. You don't—you don't know what you're doing. We shouldn't…" Every attempt at protesting is met with soft kisses against his skin that make it hard to concentrate, and when she slides her hands up his chest beneath his shirt, he chokes on a ridiculously embarrassing animal sound as he grips the comforter in a feeble attempt not to flail.

_Get it fucking together, Evans!_

"Maka," he groans as she eases his shirt up farther so she can kiss his chest. " _Maka_." Her tongue swirls around his nipple and she lets out a small giggle when his hips jerk violently against the bed, lifting her several inches in the air. "Maka!" An hour ago she didn't even have the energy to bathe herself and now she's actively trying to get him naked. What the hell is going on?!

"Please, Soul," she whimpers. "Please? I want this. I need this. I _love_ you."

It's like a bucket of ice water is dumped over his head.

" _I should've known it would be you,"_ a sugary voice croons in his memory, the witch's mocking tone like acid against his burning skin _. "I guess that means you're the one who will have to deal with the fallout over the next few weeks_."

Soul practically rips himself away from under Maka, sending him rolling off the bed and landing flat on his ass. He can hear her concern, hear her questions, but the words are lost in the memory of her attack as he stares up at her with a growing horror that threatens to shatter his very existence.

" _Don't worry, I haven't harmed the girl. I just cast a little spell_."

He isn't breathing. Can't stop shaking. He wants to reach into his head and rip out the fucking voice from a week ago that he should've remembered sooner, that he fucking hates himself for not taking seriously, but he also just wants to halt the downward spiral he's flying towards because he knows how this ends. He understands now. He is not that stupid.

" _There's nothing more amusing than an unrequited love. Especially when it's forced into reciprocation_."

Soul is on his feet, stumbling down the hall like a drunk fucking bastard, ignoring Maka's alarmed calls after him as he slams into walls in his haste. He doesn't stop fumbling until he bursts into the bathroom, and it takes him several tries to scribble the seven numbers onto the mirror with his trembling, distraught hands.

Kid answers the call immediately. "What is it?" An automatic, no-nonsense, emotionless reply. So different from his late father's jubilant greetings before him. Then Kid seems to register Soul's haggard appearance and obvious distress, his gold eyes widening with alarm. "Soul?" he says with surprise. "What is it? What happened? Is Maka okay?"

"It's a curse," he blurts out.

"What?"

"It's a _curse_. The magic that hit Maka. It's a curse." He sounds like he's heaving. Tries to take a deep breath. Fails. "The witch, she—she said it before, when it first made contact, but I thought she was just being cryptic or something and I didn't think anything of it. I swear, I had no idea—"

"Soul, calm down," Kid says firmly. "Explain it to me again. What did the witch say after she spelled Maka?"

"She said that she was bored. That your treaty was impeding her fun. That she just wanted to play, and she thought that this spell would've affected you but wasn't surprised that I was to be the recipient instead." Soul swallows thickly and forces out the next words that will condemn his fate: "She said that there's nothing more amusing than an unrequited love, especially when it's forced into reciprocation."

Whatever Soul expected from the reaper, it is not the reaction he gets. Kid's face goes eerily blank, like a tablecloth that had been whipped of crumbs or an Etch A Sketch that had been shaken clear. Though Kid has always been serious—something that was exacerbated by the loss of his father—Soul has never felt as closed off from the Death God's emotions as much as he does this very moment.

"Are you listening to me? I said—"

"I heard what you said," the reaper interrupts coolly. "Wait there. I'll be over in eight minutes."

With that, Soul is left staring at his own reflection.

-x-

Much to Soul's surprise, Kid arrives a minute and a half early with Kim and Jacqueline hot on his heels.

Soul doesn't know why he's shocked to see the older weapon-meister pair at his doorstep—after all, bringing a witch to a situation like this makes so much more sense than if Kid were to bring his two eccentric weapons—but it's not like any of it matters. Soul already has a bitter feeling as to how this is going to go.

"Where is she?" Kid demands at once.

Soul inclines his head down the hall towards their bedrooms and Kid shoulders past him in his haste to get to Maka. Kim and Jackie are less urgent, the former looking annoyed to be dragged out here this late while the latter eyes Soul critically as she follows her meister into the apartment.

"You are so going to—"

"Owe you for this, I know," Soul grunts, interrupting Kim's unhappy tirade. "Name your price. I don't care; I'll pay it all. Just fix this." _Please_.

Kim and Jackie exchange a look. The witch's expression mellows slightly, and that only serves to make Soul tense even more.

"Soul, are you okay?" Jacqueline, with her perfect posture and perfectly ironed clothes, seems way too out of place in their mismatched, homey apartment, but it's the concerned look on her face that really feels alien.

He chokes on a low, bitter laugh. Slams the door shut and fists his hand against it to keep from punching through. That's a useless question if he's ever heard one. How the fuck do they think he feels? He just found out that the girl he's loved forever has been forced to return his feelings by a spell, not of her own accord, and had he not realized it when he did, he would've had sex with her for the first time while she was literally _out of her fucking mind_.

Just thinking about it is enough to make him want to claw his soul out right from his chest.

God, what kind of weapon _is_ he? He's sworn to protect Maka with his life, swears he knows her better than anyone else, and yet he barely hesitated a second when she threw herself at him after five years of not having shown any indication that she felt that way about him at all.

He should've known something was wrong the second she stripped in front of him in the bathroom, claiming she needed help because she was too tired to wash herself. Hell, he should've known something was wrong the moment she woke up and didn't argue with him over her own health.

What the hell is wrong with him that he didn't? That he practically took advantage of her in her tired, emotionally manipulated state and didn't realize it until her hands were up his fucking shirt?

Lack of blood flow to his brain probably had something to do with it.

A pathetic hope that she might love him back is the rest.

And the look on her face, when he'd stormed back into her bedroom after his call with Kid and yelled at her to get dressed… _Fuck_. She'd looked so hurt, so distressed, and as irrational as it was, her reaction had flooded him with anger—because what _right_ did she have to feel wounded by his reaction? None of her feelings were real. They were all fake; induced by magic. Forced upon her like overcooked vegetables onto some whiny kid. Whatever pain she felt was nothing compared to the suffocating realization that the best ten minutes of his life had all been a fucking lie.

She doesn't love him. She never will.

He's spent the past five years with the solemn understanding that she probably doesn't feel the same way about him, but having it confirmed by a witch's curse hurts a hell of a lot more than he expected it to.

"You might be mistaken, you know," Jacqueline offers, drawing him out of his self-punishing reverie. "It might not be the spell you think it is."

"I know what the witch said."

Kim rolls her eyes. "Witches aren't always entirely forthcoming, Soul. It could've been a lie, or a trick, or maybe even a bluff. You'd never be able to tell."

Jackie bobs her head in a nod. "Plus, we _know_ Maka. There's no way she felt nothing for you before the spell. Anyone who's ever met you two could tell that—"

"You don't fucking get it," he interrupts roughly. "This isn't some joke where I'm overreacting or coming up with the worst possible scenario. Maybe at first I wanted to deny it too, but then she—" He breaks off. Clenches his jaw so tight he doesn't know how his fucked-up teeth don't shatter. "Maka told me she _loves_ me," he forces out, and the choked laugh that escapes his throat reminds him too much of barely suppressed black blood insanity, but he can't shove it down. Not now. "She never… She might be impulsive and stubborn and far too reckless for her own good, but she would never blurt out something like that without thinking—without agonizing over it first, over and over again in that brilliant, ridiculous, worrying brain of hers—and definitely not to convince me to get in her pants. That's not her at all."

At that, even the prickly Kim Diehl and her serious weapon can't stop their pity from shining behind their eyes.

Soul is five seconds away from screaming.

"What? No!" he hears Maka burst out suddenly from the other room. "You're wrong! I'm not—" She's cut off by the low murmur of Kid's voice followed by a hushed back-and-forth, and then her bedroom door slams open as Maka flies down the hall and flings herself into her Soul's arms.

He gathers her up on instinct before his mind catches up with his body and he stiffens against her like a board. Feeling his response change, Maka lifts her gaze from his chest to stare up at him with wide, confused eyes that fill with hurt when his hands hover around her hips instead of hug her back.

"Soul?" Her voice is tentative; shaky. "They're wrong, right? They have to be. My feelings aren't fake; I know it. I know how I feel about you." When he doesn't respond, can't even look at her, she begins to shake against him as she begs, " _Tell them they're wrong_."

He relaxes his hands to grip her wrists so he can gently push her back.

She gasps. " _No!_ Soul, you can't believe them! It's all lies—they don't know anything about us! They can't—"

"Maka," he says, as firmly as he can through the massive lump in his throat. "I know it seems real to you, but trust me, it's not. This isn't how you really feel. It's the spell. It's altering your emotions and who the hell knows what else. Possibly even your memories. None of it is real."

She blinks up at him, her eyes so wide and innocent and earnest. "But I _love_ you."

He flinches at her words like she'd personally taken a blade to his chest, and Kim lets out a low whistle. "Wow. Okay, yeah, now I see what you're talking about. That's some spell." Jackie elbows her in the ribs. "I mean… that is to say… _shit_ , I don't know. That freaking sucks."

"Thanks," Soul says sarcastically. "Now can you fix her or not?"

Kim frowns. "It's not that easy. Love spells are complicated. Not only are they nearly impossible to distinguish from one another, but they can also only be reversed by either consummating the connection or having the witch who'd placed the spell unravel it herself."

"Are you fucking serious?" Soul says while simultaneously trying to ignore the sad puppy dog eyes his meister is harassing him with. God, it should be illegal to be that cute. "Are you telling me that the only way to reverse the curse is to either track down the witch who placed it or to have sex with a girl who literally has no control over her emotions?"

Maka's expression brightens. "Sex?" she asks hopefully.

Kid chokes on air, and Soul turns tomato fucking red. " _No!_ No sex!"

"Aw."

His eyes bulge. "M-M-M-Maka! You can't—it's not—you don't— _okay?_ " he begs, entirely incoherent, and then he makes lasers of his eyes as he glares at Kim and Jackie, both of whom are struggling to hold back tear-inducing laughs. "Oh, you two think this is funny? Because I can assure you, I'm _not fucking laughing_."

"Oh, relax, Eater. It's not the end of the world." Kim waves him off with a roll of her eyes. "When you think about it, this all could've been much worse."

"Yes, because having to fend off the compelled advances of the girl I love is totally _no big deal_."

Maka brightens again. "You love me?"

"Not now," he snaps. She deflates like a balloon.

Realizing that she might be a little insensitive even for her, Kim dials down her bitch about ten notches and sighs like this is all too much effort for her after sundown. She beckons her hand towards Maka. "Come on, girl, let's see what I can do."

The blonde instantly latches onto Soul's arm like a preschooler who refuses to be peeled away from her mother, lips jutting out in a criminally adorable pout. "No! You just don't want me to love Soul anymore so you can all have him to yourself. I don't need fixing."

Kim snorts. "Trust me, Maka—your broody, shark-toothed, woe-is-me weapon isn't my type in the slightest. But if you love him as much as you claim to, you should want to do whatever you can to help him out. And right now he needs you to let me take a look at you. This is hard enough on him as it is. You don't want to hurt him more than you already have, do you?"

Eyes widening, Maka snaps her head to stare up at Soul with a horrified expression that is far too puppy-like for her own good. "I'm hurting you?"

She might as well just rip his heart out of his chest. "N-n-no, of course not," he rushes to say, ignoring the way Kim rolls her eyes like he's the biggest idiot on the planet. "But, Maka, no matter what you think you feel, you have to know we can't let it go on like this. We have to reverse the spell. This isn't right."

Instead of childishly stomping her feet like he half-expects her to, Maka simply furrows her brows as if she's thinking deeply about something. A fierce sort of resolve settles over her face. "And what if you're wrong?"

"Hnn?"

"What if you're wrong?" she repeats. "What if we reverse the spell and my feelings haven't changed? Will you believe me then?"

She looks so determined, so resolute in her desire to prove her love for him that Soul can't help but soften. "Sure, Maka. I'll believe you then."

It only takes a few minutes for Kim to confirm what she already knew: first, while it's clear that Maka's been spelled with some sort of love curse, the nature of it is unclear; and second, there's no way to reverse the spell without either complete consummation or finding the witch who'd cast it in the first place. And despite Kim's waggling brows, Soul is adamantly against the former.

"We'll send Clay and Akane to track down the witch as soon as possible," the reaper decides, interrupting the glaring match between the young Death Scythe and the pink-haired meister.

"Why not us?" Soul asks. "You and I both know Maka has the strongest perception, and finding anyone—even witches under soul protect—is kind of her specialty."

"While that may be true, I don't feel entirely comfortable sending her on a mission outside the city when her judgement has been compromised. I'm sure you understand."

Soul frowns down at Maka, who has taken to cuddling up against his side with her tiny arms wrapped happily around his waist. She doesn't even seem to be paying attention to anything they're saying, just basking in the warmth of his awkward half-embrace where it's impossible not to touch her back but it also feels wrong to so he's trying to refrain as much as possible. He grimaces. "Fair enough."

"What about Stein and Spirit?" Jackie suggests. Next to Maka, they're the best bet at finding people through soul perception. And despite how crazy they both are, even Soul has to admit that they make an exceptional team.

Kid shakes his head. "I barely managed to get them to return to their mission in the Amazon two days ago. They have a commitment there, and they already dropped everything to visit Maka when she was unconscious once. Reassigning them just to find one witch would be a waste of resources."

Maka's father had pretty much hijacked the first flight back the second he heard that Maka was hurt. The only reason he and Stein left before she had a chance to wake up was because their Death God had reminded them of their other obligations and assured them they'd be updated the moment anything changed with Maka's condition.

Spirit sobbed the entire time as Stein dragged him away.

Maka's mother, on the other hand, hadn't even sent so much as a postcard to ask how her daughter was doing, but that's another story altogether.

"Clay and Akane, with their training in the DWMA Intelligence, should be able to track down the witch by working with our magical contacts. In the meantime, I think it might be best to have Maka stay elsewhere, just to be safe. We have extra bedrooms at Gallows Mansion, and Liz and Patty would love to have Maka around. She could—"

"No!" Maka snaps out of her contented cuddling to deny the request before it's even fully formed out of Kid's lips. She tightens her grip around Soul's waist, her head shaking rapidly back and forth. "I'm not leaving Soul. You can't make me."

The reaper's face flickers. "Maka…"

"I said no!"

Sensing an argument coming, Soul quickly offers, "It's fine, Kid. She can stay here. I think I can handle a few nights with my overly affectionate meister while Clay and Akane look for the witch."

"When you called me earlier, you were nearly hysterical and your boner was high enough to raise the ceiling," Kid deadpans. "Forgive me if I don't believe you."

Soul flinches. "That's—fuck, that was before I knew she was cursed. Jesus. Do you really think I'd ever take advantage of Maka knowing that she isn't in her right mind? You know me better than that." Plus, despite how much this whole situation sucks, Soul could never force Maka to leave if she didn't want to—even if it _is_ more painful for both of them for her to stick around. Denying her anything goes against every fiber of his being.

"If you're certain," Kid allows after a long moment. "Since there's nothing else that can be done at this time, I have to request that we try to keep this under wraps as best as we can. The Witch Alliance is still relatively new, and I know I don't have to inform you of how volatile it has been over the past couple years. Aside from our closest friends, this information should remain strictly need-to-know. The last thing we need is for there to be rumors spreading about a rogue witch on the loose who had cursed one of the Academy's top meisters."

"We understand, Kid," Maka says instantly, surprising them all with her solemn agreement. "You know we would never do anything to make your job more difficult that it already is. You can count on us to keep it a secret until we get everything sorted out."

The reaper seems to be the only one in the room who isn't stunned by her unexpected understanding. His lips twitch in what might even be a half-smile. "If you really wanted to make this easier for me, you'd agree to stay at the Gallows so I don't have to worry about you doing something uncharacteristically reckless with your feelings."

" _Uncharacteristically_ reckless? Me?" She chuckles. "That's sweet, Kid. You know I'm never one to hold back under any circumstances. Why would this be any different?"

This time, Soul is certain the reaper must be smiling, albeit a little wryly. "My mistake." Then he catches Soul's subtle frown and his expression smooths back into one of careful detachment. "It's getting late so I'll let you get back to sleep. Cursed or not, you all still have school tomorrow and I'm not giving you a pass just because of this misunderstanding."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Soul groans, and Kim's smile is sickeningly sweet.

"I'll send you the new bill for my services tomorrow. And just to give a heads up, I always charge extra after sundown and for second offences."

"Buy one, get one free?" he says dryly.

"Not even in your dreams."

* * *

The day after Maka wakes up is a Thursday.

Soul hates Thursdays.

It's no secret that weapons and meisters at the DWMA have different capabilities. While weapons become nearly invulnerable in their transformed states, meisters are far more physically competent. They can run farther, react faster, and land on their feet at times when weapons would normally stumble.

One of the rare exceptions to that rule comes in the form of the disturbingly talented Patricia Thompson, but for the most part, few weapons can ever stand a chance against a meister in a hand-to-hand fight. They're trained differently, mentally _built_ differently, and weapons simply lack the field experience that meisters get on a regular basis.

For that reason, weapons and meisters are separated for two hours every Tuesday and Thursday to train on varied levels. These classes are supposed to be used to improve their individual skills to eventually better their partnerships.

Liz, Patty, and Tsubaki tend to use this period to grill Soul about his non-existent love life with his oblivious best friend.

"Tell us _everything_ ," Liz demands the moment they corner him on the sidelines of the gym as Nygus personally helps two other weapons in their class with their sparring match.

He bites back a groan. After the night he had, all he wants to do is wallow against the wall in peace like the stereotypical broody loner he so desperately wants to be. But the Thompsons never take no for an answer, and despite Tsubaki's immeasurable kindness and patience for her hotheaded meister, she is still far too invested in Soul's useless romantic endeavors for her own good.

Seriously. Sometimes he thinks the shadow weapon might be the most sadistic of them all. Her navy eyes always light the fuck up whenever he comes to class with some embarrassing story, and she never fails to be the first one to encourage his dismal love life even when they know she's grasping at straws.

Being considered one of the girls is not as fun as most guys seem to think it is.

"Yo, Eater!" Liz snaps her fingers in front of his face to get his attention, ever the impatient gossip. " _Spill_. Kid told us that Maka was basically rubbing herself against you like a kitten in heat. What happened after he left? Did she try anything else? Did you let her?" Before Soul can even consider replying, she slams her hands against the floor and whines, "Damn it, he should've taken us with him last night! I want to see a needy Maka making you blush like the obvious idiot you are. Denying us that right is like—weapon cruelty or something."

Fuck his life. "Can we please skip the mushy, prying, ripping-my-balls-out talk about emotions today? I'm really not in the mood."

"How cute," Liz croons. "He thinks that he has a choice. Isn't that adorable, Pat?"

"Stupid," her sister giggles. "Very, very stupid."

"Anyway, we all know that you're the sappiest blob of suppressed feelings in the entire freaking school, so don't even try that pretend Cool Guy bullshit on us, Eater. We see right through your paper-thin façade."

Grimacing, Soul shoots a pleading look at some of the other weapons waiting on the sidelines for their turn on the mats. Jacqueline merely shrugs unapologetically like "sorry, buddy, you're on your own," and Harvar blatantly ignores them all, staring ahead into the void as if none of them even exist.

 _Traitors_.

"Look, whatever you guys are thinking, it's not like that. Maka's under a spell, and you know I'd never take advantage of her." He'd sooner tear off his own arm than try. "Besides, this pretty much confirms what I've been telling you guys all along: she doesn't like me that way. End of story. And once the spell is done and she realizes that this was all my fault, you can bet your ass that she'll chop me over the head so hard I'll be seeing stars for weeks."

That, or she'll end their partnership completely.

The thought alone is enough to make him want to throw up the breakfast he was too nauseous to have.

For the past couple years, the female weapons of their team have all been insistent that Maka felt the same way for Soul as he so obviously did for her, but he was always wary to trust them. Liz was too devious, Tsubaki far too romantic, and Patty just gave off the misleading impression that she never had any idea what the hell was going on.

Despite their reassurances, Soul had been terrified to take the next step. Crossing that line with Maka could've meant the end of their partnership altogether, and he wasn't going to jeopardize the best thing that ever happened to him just because her best friends were _eighty-five percent_ sure that Maka loved him back.

And so he'd squashed down his feelings. Acted like he had zero interest in her. Pretended he was nothing more than a loyal weapon who was willing to do anything and everything to protect his meister.

And it worked, for the most part—at least, until the stupid, meddlesome witch decided to gamble with Maka's emotions and shatter that thin ice he'd been walking on for the past few years.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor to Liz's left, Tsubaki offers him a sympathetic look that might've made him feel better if she wasn't practically vibrating with excitement. "I'm sure there's some mistake." Then her true intentions shine through as she leans forward with hopeful, rainbow-filled eyes. "Is it true that you two finally kissed? On the lips? Was it romantic? Did she initiate it or did you?"

Liz lets out a very unladylike snort. "Please. Even if Maka tattooed the words 'KISS ME, DUMBASS' on her forehead in sparkly neon lettering, this imbecile would've gawked at her for several hours before he could even _consider_ making the first move."

"Hey!"

She cocks a brow. "Am I wrong?"

As much as Soul wants to protest, he knows it's useless. Elizabeth Thompson may be many things, but she is a genius when it comes to deciphering the feeble intentions of emotionally challenged pea-brains like him. He's long since stopped trying to argue with her about his mushy, pathetic feelings for his meister.

_Damn it._

"So what's our game plan, sis?" Patty rolls onto her back and peers up at the three of them with wide, upturned blue eyes. "Should he take her on a date? Fly her to Paris to woo her? Or just go straight to confessing his embarrassing, undying love?"

"Maybe he should start with something smaller, like holding her hand or telling her she looks pretty today," Tsubaki suggests tentatively.

"Well, I say he just throws her over his shoulder, carry her home, and have his filthy way with her," chimes Liz. "He's still a virgin at seventeen, and while I do appreciate the romantic undertones behind his consistent drooling over Maka, I'm hoping that he'll be a little less disgusting about it once he starts getting laid."

"HOLD UP." Soul slams his palm down against the ground between them, drawing three raised brows from his unwanted companions. "Are you all _insane_? Didn't Kid tell you what's going on? She's under a curse! She has zero control over her emotions! Trying anything with her right now would be taking advantage."

Liz rolls her eyes. "Relax, Eater, you're not going to be doing anything she doesn't want. Trust me."

Is he invisible or do these women just have selective hearing? "IT'S. A. _SPELL_."

While both Liz and Patty look infuriatingly uninterested in what he has to say, Tsubaki tilts her head to the side, brows slightly furrowed. "Do you think the curse only affects her feelings for the one person who loves her the most? Or does it affect how she feels about _everyone_ who loves her, regardless of strength and number?"

Soul snorts. "You say that as if there's a giant line of guys who are waiting for my meister." When the girls don't respond, only exchange looks, he goes stiff as a board. "You're fucking with me."

"Weeeellll, _love_ is a bit of a stretch for most," says Liz, "but come on, Soul. Maka is the girl who made the Last Death Scythe and defeated Asura on the moon. Plus, even without the fame she earned from saving the freaking world, she's got the whole badass, sweetheart schoolgirl thing going on. Let's face it, she's a babe. Hell, I'd go after her myself if you haven't been mentally pissing all over her since before we even met."

"O _kay_ —" Soul grimaces. "—disgusting and misogynistic metaphor aside, you're dating Kilik." A coupling that had shocked their friends and made an absurd amount of sense all at once. Liz and Kilik had both been forced into parental roles at a young age, the blonde taking care of her sister on the streets and the pot meister when it came to his much younger weapons. It was no wonder they became so close.

Liz waves that off. "Details, details. Point is, Maka's hot and you can't seriously believe that no guy has ever looked at her that way but you."

"But… she never said anything."

"Maybe you should ask Maka about this," Tsubaki says diplomatically. "I'm sure she had her reasons. Maka's never been one to keep secrets from you, at least not without cause."

Before he can respond, Nygus calls out to them from across the gym. "Patty. Soul." She gestures for them to approach the mat. "Come on up. You two are sparring next."

As Patty jumps to her feet with excitement, Soul cannot contain his groan.

The gods are really against him today if they're going to make him fight the terrifying Patricia Thompson before he has a chance to get any food in his stomach.

-x-

Maka latches onto him like a baby koala throughout their next few classes, drawing the bewildered gazes of their oblivious classmates, and at lunch, Black Star can no longer hold his tongue.

"Okay, this is fucking weird," the assassin announces after a somewhat awkward silence at their cafeteria table. Maka has snuggled up to Soul's side, eyes closed with contentment, and Soul can feel dozens of eyes boring into his back like pestering insects while his friends openly gape at him from the front.

"Don't you think I know that?" As much as Soul loves it when Maka touches him—and as freaking adorable as she is when she's puppy-sweet like this—he has always been inherently allergic to attention, and nothing draws nosy stares like the possibility of a new weapon-meister couple. DWMA students are total fucking gossips.

Soul feels like he's developing hives.

From the other side of the table, Tsubaki gives him a sympathetic look as she unwraps the same bento box she packs for her and Star every day. She cracks one pair of disposable chopsticks, hands it to her partner, then snaps another for herself. "Don't worry about everyone else, Soul. They're just curious because they don't know the reason behind Maka's strange actions, and her blatant affection is slightly unusual. They'll get used to it eventually."

He grimaces. "Maka is _so_ going to kill me when the curse is reversed."

Twirling her fork in her salad, Liz agrees, "That is a strong possibility."

"By the way, Star," Soul remembers, "did _you_ know about the guys that have asked Maka out?"

The blue-haired assassin blinks around a massive mouthful of food. "You mean from last week?" Soggy pieces of rice spit from his garbled mouth, and Tsubaki dutifully wipes it away with a napkin.

"Wait—last _week_? As in there are more than a few? As in they're still trying?" Soul is stunned. He doesn't know whether to yell or cry or put out a hit on every male that comes into a twenty-foot radius of his meister. "How many have there been?"

Black Star bursts out laughing and nearly chokes on his half-chewed lunch. " _Bro_. Dude. My man. You can't be that fucking stupid. Maka may be an angry, flat-chested bookworm, but plenty of guys are into that shit. Lolicon, schoolgirl, small titties… they're all pretty popular tags on hentai sites, no?"

"Don't forget defloration," Patty sings happily as she shapes her mashed potatoes into an impressively detailed zoo animal.

"Shit, I forgot about that one. Nice catch." Star smacks Patty's hand in some sort of messed-up, appreciative high-five.

Internally, Soul debates between kicking Star in the nuts or straight-out punching him in the fucking face. He settles on gritting his teeth instead. "Why the hell didn't you say anything to me?"

"Would it have made a difference?"

" _Yes!"_

Star snorts. "Why're you concerned about that shit now anyway? It's not like she said yes to any of them or whatever." Then he blinks. "Oh. You're worried about if the curse affects how she feels about other guys who like her, aren't ya. Well, why didn't you just say so?"

When Star sets aside his lunch to leap up from their table, Soul feels a foreboding dread settle in his stomach and instinctively tightens his grip around Maka. She lets out a small hum of happiness.

And then Star grabs Soul's arm.

"Dude, what the fuck are you doing?" Soul yelps.

"Shut up and get your ass moving, Eater." The assassin yanks harder on Soul's wrist until he has no choice but to follow, Maka immediately shadowing his side. "You're fucked-up over this stupid crap so we might as well get down to the truth before you drive your overthinking, pansy-ass brain insane over it, yeah?" As he drags Soul away—and by proxy, Maka—the blue-haired idiot shouts over his shoulder, "'Baki, pack up my shit for later, will ya? I'm still starving!"

"Don't be late for class," Tsubaki calls absently after them, not even looking up from the table, like a busy mother who half-heartedly agrees with everything her child says over the haze of a pre-coffee morning while reading the newspaper.

"No promises!" Star yells back.

-x-

 _This is a bad idea_ , Soul thinks grimly, and after a long moment of repeating it over and over again in his head, he says it out loud. "This is a bad idea."

Black Star waves him off with one hand. "Yeah, yeah. Tomato, tomahto, blue skies are green and all that."

" _What?_ That doesn't make any sense!"

This time he receives no answer. Star's gaze is focused solely on the other side of the shrubs where the empty path is.

It's the middle of lunchtime, and instead of eating in the cafeteria with the majority of the other DWMA students, they're crouched behind bushes lining the path through one of the school's gardens like fucking creepers, waiting for god knows what.

"Are we going to jump someone?" Maka asks in confusion, still holding onto Soul's arm even in their awkward, squatting positions.

He almost chokes on a laugh. Of course that would be her first thought. Although she would vehemently deny it if he ever tried to point it out, Maka has the most ridiculous imagination he's ever known. She tends to come up with the most mind-bogglingly absurd scenarios in sudden circumstances. He blames her books.

It's kind of fucking adorable.

"Shhh, here he comes!"

"Here _who_ comes?" Soul asks.

In answer, Black Star grabs Maka's arm, yanks her away from Soul's side, and practically throws her through the bushes and stumbling into the path.

With a hiss of outrage, Soul rises from his crouch to dive after her, only to be restrained by Black Star, who clamps one tight hand over his mouth and uses his other hand to twist both of Soul's arms behind his back. "Don't make me punch you in the nuts, Eater. You know I'll fucking do it."

Soul instantly stills, though not without contempt. "What the fuck are you doing?" he garbles into Star's beefy palm.

"Just _watch,_ dude. 'Baki and I have been practicing the assassin arts lately and I wanted to show you how to sneak around like a ninja." The blue-haired imbecile sounds far too gleeful to be healthy. "This is all part of my master plan to find out the truth. Trust me."

In that moment, Soul vows to punch _Star_ in the nuts as soon as he regains control of his hands. He is not generous with trust or patience today.

Meanwhile, Maka—ever the capable meister—somehow manages not to not fall flat on her face despite being launched several feet by Black Star's lack of control over his own strength. Instead, she blunders forward several feet trying to regain her balance before crashing into a tall guy who'd been passing by.

The stranger grabs Maka's shoulders to steady her and Soul feels his homicidal urges increase tenfold.

"Maka!" the man says with surprise, and—oh yeah, Soul definitely wants to kill someone now. Dark hair, blue eyes, strong jaw, and the towering build of a disciplined MMA fighter… Who the fuck is this twinkly-eyed pretty boy and how the hell does he know Soul's meister?

Startled, the blonde glances up at the person who caught her, and even restrained behind the bushes, Soul can feel her surprise. "Dean! Hi!"

"Shit, are you okay? Did you just… fly out of those bushes? What were you doing over there?"

A pretty pink flushes her cheeks. "It's, ah—it's a long story. I think. Anyway, um, I'm sorry for running into you like that. Talk about rude. That's not the way to greet someone you haven't seen in weeks."

"No, don't apologize," he insists. "Actually, I'm glad I ran into you. I was meaning to visit your class again, see how you're doing." The pretty boy— _Dean_ , Soul thinks with contempt—looks down at Maka with a soft expression, and it doesn't escape Soul's notice that the oversized bastard still hasn't stopped dwarfing her dainty little shoulders with his bear-like hands. "How have you been doing lately? You still beating up guys twice your size on a daily basis?"

She lets out a small laugh. "Yeah, you know me. Nothing is more therapeutic than throwing down with idiots who assume that _small_ means _useless_."

Dean smiles. "Trust me, Maka, no one thinks that when it comes to you. And if they did—well, I have no doubt you could change their minds."

"With a well-placed kick to the gut?" she teases.

"You know it."

When Soul tries to jerk out of Black Star's hold, unable to watch this yak-fest any longer, Star tightens his grip and explains, "That's Dean Moriarty, one of the seniors that graduated last year. He was invited to assist our meister combat class a lot when we were sophomores, and he's always had a soft spot for Maka. Asked her out like twice in the past few months alone."

Unsurprisingly, the assassin's explanation does not make Soul feel better. Soul licks Black Star's disgusting palm to get him to release his face, but of course Star only snickers instead of getting grossed out.

"Nice try, Eater. Your shark spit doesn't affect me."

At that, Soul transforms his arm into a blade and Star immediately releases him, backing up with his hands raised in surrender.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't kill the messenger!"

"You don't even know what that means," Soul hisses, keeping his voice low for god-knows-what reason. What the hell is he still doing here, arguing with this idiot anyway? Straightening his spine, the scythe weapon prepares to charge through the bushes, throw Maka over his shoulder, and haul her the fuck out of there when Black Star holds out an arm, shaking his spastic, ridiculous head.

"Look, bro, I'm just trying to help you out. You're worried that Maka's feelings have been affected for other dudes too and this is the only way to confirm whether or not you're right."

"By putting her in front of another unreasonably attractive meister and expecting her not to take a bite?"

Seriously, how is that even fair? Maka is fucking perfect, but she's still covered in scars because of her role as a child soldier for the DWMA.

This guy, on the other hand, looks like he gets weekly manicures and could do shirtless modeling on a whim just because some random scouter saw him on the street and thought he looked pretty.

Black Star's eyes are creepily wise as he says, very deliberately, "Well, she's never taken him up on his offer before, has she?"

Soul deflates like a balloon. _Damn it_. He hates when Star uses logic; it goes against every single law of the universe. Arm transforming back, Soul glances back over the hedge to see that Mr. Fuckhead Pretty Boy has released Maka's shoulders only to brush her fallen hair from her face, and the unreasonable heat in his chest returns.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Star smack his forehead with a groan, but Soul is already on his feet, stomping towards his girl and the asshole who doesn't know how to keep his hands to his goddamn self.

"—yesterday, and I actually—eep!" Maka squeaks when she's abruptly yanked away from the dark-haired alum and tucked against her weapon's side. She glances up at him with wide green eyes, looking partly startled but mostly confused. "Soul?"

He ignores her in favor of glaring at Dean. "Hey, I don't think we've met before. I'm the Last Death Scythe, and I really don't like it when people touch my fucking meister."

When he'd imagined the scenario playing out in his mind, Soul thought that the dickhead would either become angry or scared by his blatant display of possessive antagonism—as per the cliché romcom rules he is used to—so it completely throws him off his axis when Dean merely throws his head back, clutches his toned stomach, and laughs out loud.

Even Maka, curled under his domineering arm, can't help but giggle at his display. Her previous confusion is replaced by amusement and an open adoration that makes his cheeks heat up, even in his absolute befuddlement.

"Wow, okay, now I get it," Dean continues to chuckle. "No wonder I never stood a chance. He's clearly even more far gone than you are."

Maka brightens. "You think?"

"Oh, definitely," he affirms. "Absolutely smashed. Completely annihilated."

Soul is confused. "Wait. What the hell is going on?"

"Our sweet Maka here was just telling me about how she finally worked up the nerve to confess to her weapon and he doesn't believe her because he thinks it's some sort of spell. She was about to explain how she hoped she'd be able to prove her feelings for you somehow so you'll believe her because, now that her nervous insecurity blinders have come off, she realizes that you love her, too." Dean tucks one hand in the front pocket of his jeans and smiles. "I was going to tell her that you'd be crazy not to."

"I… oh. _Oh_." Soul blinks. Closes his gaping mouth. Blushes like a goddamn tomato. "Uhhhhhh, I wasn't… I mean, I didn't—"

Dean waves him off. "Don't worry about it, kid. I get it." Then he grins at Maka. "You've really got your work cut out for you with this one, don't ya?"

Maka sighs dramatically. "Don't I know it."

"Well, I've gotta head back inside to prepare for another demonstration I'm doing for one of the younger classes after lunch, but I'm in town for the next couple weeks. If you manage to get things sorted out by then, maybe I can take you out for celebratory drinks or something to mark the end of a pining era?"

The blonde beams. "I'd love that!"

"Awesome." Backing up slowly, Dean lifts two fingers in a wave as he begins to turn around. "Good luck with everything, you two. I have a feeling you're going to need it." With one last wink, Dean leaves them to continue down the path, his soft whistles trilling through the quiet, natural space as he becomes smaller and smaller in the distance.

Maka, on the other hand, looks like it's taking everything in her power to withhold her laughs. "Sooo, um… I guess you're going around introducing yourself as the Last Death Scythe now?"

Soul wants to die. Off behind the bushes, he can hear Black Star rolling around on the ground, howling with laughter. "Stop. Talking," he hisses, as if acting snake-like will make him cold-blooded like he so desperately hopes he can become in this moment. That is the only possible way to keep him from burning brighter than the Moroccan flag. "Don't you dare say another word."

His meister laughs the entire time he leads them back to their classroom, still tucked against his side.

At least he knows he doesn't have to worry about other guys while she's cursed. Clearly he's the only idiot for whom her feelings are being affected.

* * *

He remembers the exact moment he falls in love with her.

Or at least, that's when he knows for sure.

He's fifteen years old. It's a normal afternoon, the Death City heat making him feel about as lifeless as a fried egg. He collapses on the couch after a long day of not-so-standardized DWMA testing, his overgrown limbs like awkward noodles spilling over the edges of a bowl that's far too small, and for once he is glad that his face is naturally so demonic. It masks the fact that he wants to murder the fucking world.

He is tired. He is irritated. He wants a fucking cheeseburger.

Just as he's about to yell at Maka that they're ordering take-out instead of attempting to use a stove in this inhumane heat, he feels a weight in her soul.

His body snaps upright in an instant. She's paused at the edge of the living room, her gaze lightly trained on the small stack of envelopes they'd grabbed from their mailbox on the way up. Even though her expression doesn't change, doesn't tighten, he knows deep in his gut that something is wrong.

"Maka?"

Her face flickers. She looks up, and _fuck_ , she's always been so bad at hiding her emotions—it's not in her nature to hide things, especially not from him—but the fact that she doesn't even mean to try, that her instinct makes the attempt for her, that she's so conditioned to keeping her feelings barely bottled up from years of quiet neglect by parents she adored that her mind feels it's necessary to mask her true emotions… It makes his lungs constrict like nothing else.

Soul, on the other hand, is a master of feigned indifference. He flicks his gaze to the stationery culprit in her grasp. "We get anything good?"

She smiles, and he knows it's not a lie, not to her. It's just the way she is, the way she's been raised, but it still fucking slaughters him how her light doesn't reach her eyes. "Nah, mostly bills. I'll deal with them later." Tossing the thin stack onto the coffee table, she says, "Anyway, I don't feel like cooking today, so is it alright if I call in to Death Fry? I'm craving a cheeseburger."

With that, she continues to converse softly to him through one-sided musings like she always does as she bustles absently around the kitchen, but Soul's attention is stolen by the mail she'd dropped onto the table in front of him—or, more specifically, the postcard resting on top.

Low effort, nothing special. Just a basic photo card of the Eiffel Tower that any idiot could pick up at any store down the main streets of France. Three brief lines leave the small space looking empty, especially in their neat, practiced scrawl:

_Paris is beautiful. You would love the shops. Love, Mom._

Soul's hands curl into fists, but it's not anger that makes him tense. It's not fury at a mother who has been abandoning her daughter for months at a time since she was an infant, sending only choppy, half-assed update cards and leaving no return address for a response.

At this point, he and Maka have been partnered for over three years. He has long since stopped being surprised by Kami Albarn's distant affection, and wanting to break the news to Maka that her mom is a horrible human being is like thinking about telling a four-year-old that Santa Claus doesn't exist. Just fucking cruel.

No, the reason his fingers have to clench now is because of the sudden, all-consuming urge to grab Maka's hand.

He doesn't even want a hug—at least he doesn't think he does. And it's not like he hasn't held her hand before. These days, they always seem to be connected.

Out of all their friends, Soul is aware that he and Maka have the most… _physically affectionate_ partnership, but he always wrote it off in his mind as something that he did for Maka. Because she's emotional, because she always needs that somatic reassurance, because he's just being there for her like any normal weapon would. He grabs her hand when she's unsteady and stands so close when she's upset that he can feel her heat sear into his lungs.

He is her weapon. He is devoted. That's just what a partner does.

Soul doesn't make a habit of lying to himself, but then, when it comes to Maka, things have always been different.

He doesn't end up holding her hand that day. Instead, they grab burgers from their favorite fast food restaurant and he picks as many fights as he possibly can—she's loud, she's annoying, and if she keeps eating like this, she's going to blow up like a pig. With each blatant insult, she grows more and more irritated until she explodes at him with crimson cheeks and a verbal shove at his chest that leaves him aching.

Only when he sees the fire in her eyes return does he feel his chest loosen. Just a little bit.

It's been two years since then. He is seventeen, and wanting to hold her hand has become less and less of a terrifying prospect. Now he does it without thinking. She is constantly leaning into his side. They cuddle on the couch without calling it cuddling. They are always together, always brushing against each other, only _existing_ together. After the Battle on the Moon, they even spent days upon weeks sleeping in the same bed because they were both crippled with nightmares, though neither was strong enough to voice what theirs had been.

Their friends like to tease him for being oblivious, but he is not as blind as they believe.

* * *

"Soul?"

His head rolls to the side against his pillow, eyes blank and wary. She's been hovering outside his door for so long that he almost started to believe she wasn't going to come in at all, but either the curse has doubled her courage or her lust is commandeering all her actions, because here she is, standing outside his bedroom. Her blond hair is loose around her shoulder and she's backlit by the faint glow of the hallway night light they always keep on so he'll stop stubbing his toe on random objects when he goes to get a glass of water in the middle of the night.

She looks like a fucking angel.

"Can I sleep next to you?" she whispers.

He exhales deeply through his nose. "Maka…"

"I promise I won't do anything to make you feel uncomfortable," she rushes to say. "I won't even touch you if you don't want me to. I just… I want to be close to you. Please?"

Soul lets his neck roll back so he's staring at the shadowed ceiling. After a brief moment, he flips the corner of his blanket down in a wordless invitation.

He doesn't see the expression on her face as she crawls into bed beside him, but the pure happiness and relief in her soul is enough to make it hard to breathe. She hesitates as she climbs beneath the covers, and Soul can't resist extending his arm in response, letting her know it's okay to do what she so clearly is dying to.

The bliss in her soul is like a flame against his skin, even more scorching that her body's heat as she curls up against his side and sighs with contentment. She fits so perfectly against him. It isn't fair.

He tells himself he doesn't feel the burn.


	2. made to be broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soul evans is far too cute for his own good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi and welcome to fluff central! we will return to our regularly scheduled program of angst next chapter. for now, just enjoy the ride. 
> 
> all fic and chapter titles are lines from songs by the goo goo dolls. kallie will marry you if you can guess which ones.

Soul is adorable when he pretends he's not blushing.

It's ridiculous, really. He's tan, but not that tan. It's not exactly something he can hide. He can scowl and grumble and look away every time she cuddles up to his side, but she's known him since he was twelve years old. He's no bad boy rebel. He's a not-so-secret mama bear in a terrible, genetic disguise.

She can't believe it took a witch for her to realize he's stupidly in love with her, too.

"Stay still," she says, just to mess with him. He couldn't be more of a statue if he tried.

He scowls. "You're not funny."

"I'm hilarious."

"Clearly we have different definitions of what constitutes good humor."

"You think _you're_ the funny one in our partnership? Really, Mr. _I'm Going to Rename Myself Soul Eater And Emulate the Hunchback of Notre Dame Because I'm So Clever and Cool_?" Before he can retort, she finishes fiddling with his hair and straightens with a bright smile. "Tada! All done!"

She has to bite her tongue as he takes the handheld mirror she passes to him and gazes at his reflection for the first time. There, pointing upwards from above his forehead like a misplaced horn, is a ridiculous sprout of white hair gathered together and secured with a pale pink bow.

To his credit, he doesn't explode like he could. Maka suspects he knew what he was getting himself into when he reluctantly agreed to let her play with his hair after she pulled out the big ole puppy dog eyes on him.

Still, even as his jaw ticks and his eyebrows look like they're physically in pain to keep from twitching off his goddamn face, he manages to keep his cool as he says, very calmly, "Considering you spent the better part of your adolescence wearing pigtails, I shouldn't be surprised that you have such terrible taste in hairstyles."

Maka gasps. "Take that back!"

"You turned me into a doll styled by a two-year-old," he says dryly. "I don't have to take back anything."

"You look cute!"

"I'm a Death Scythe."

"A _cute_ Death Scythe," she insists. "The cutest in all the land. Royal-worthy. Cross my heart."

"You do realize that everything coming out of your mouth is increasingly more ridiculous, right?"

"You gonna blame that on the curse too?"

It's been two weeks since she woke up from what was supposedly a curse-induced nap—like the kind that princesses are put under by a big, bad witch in children's fairy tales, only to be rescued by the kiss from their handsome, knightly prince.

Except her prince is far from amicable, and he refuses to kiss her so much as goodnight, even as he lets her crawl into bed with him after a long day of training. No matter how much she and everyone else try to convince him that her feelings probably haven't been too affected by the spell, he won't listen. Claims he knows better. Claims he's doing this for her own good.

_It's the curse_ , he always responds whenever she tries to tell him she loves him. _You don't know what you want. The spell is influencing everything you think and feel. I'm your weapon, and I'll always protect you, Maka. Even from yourself_.

It'd be almost romantic if she weren't so goddamn horny all the time.

In a lot of ways, these past two weeks have taught her that Soul is far more of a pushover than he'd ever let on. He lets her cuddle up against him and hold his hand and pepper kisses all over his adorable, blushing face. He still won't let her kiss him for real, of course, because he has some misplaced sense of chivalry that insists on letting her drown in sexual frustration instead of helping her get off, but she's long since stopped trying to push.

If he wants to play the celibate martyr for the sake of his own conscience, she won't stop him. It's only a matter of time before the curse is reversed and Maka can prove that her feelings are her own. Then she'll be mounting him like a horse and he won't have any excuses not to have his dirty way with her.

Until then, she just has to bear with his frustrating stubbornness as best as she can. Which sometimes isn't easy at all.

"Nope," Soul answers now, in response to her rightful accusation that he blames everything on her untimely curse these days. "I know that's all you." He yelps when she whacks him on the arm, rubbing at his bicep with a criminally adorable scowl. "See? Violent actions in the face of minor teasing? Now that's the Maka I know."

"So I'm me if I'm violent but I'm not me if I'm affectionate?" Her tone is incredulous. "Is that really what you think of me? Why the hell do you even love me then?"

"Your ass, obviously," he deadpans. She whacks at him again, this time with a mild growl of frustration, and he actually cracks a grin. He takes her wrists in his hands. His skin is so warm, his touch impossibly gentle. His hands are so much softer than her rough, scarred, meister ones. She feels like she's melting beneath the warmth of his gaze but then of course he has to ruin it by saying, "Ask me again when you're back to yourself."

Maka flops to the ground with a dramatic groan. "You're impossible," she grumbles into the carpet, but the words are so garbled that it sounds more like, "Vvwwe vwvwawvwvwle."

"I'm sorry, was that English?"

"I _said_ , you're impossible," she repeats, again in carpet-speak.

She can hear him move off the sofa to crouch by her head. He nudges her shoulder. "C'mon, Maka. Don't fucking lie on the ground like that. It's disgusting. You have no idea what kind of germs collect there."

"Dun tvwell mwe vwuh vu vuu."

He snorts. "Okay, I don't even need to speak Carpet Eater to know that you were telling me off then."

She rolls her head to the side, just enough to peer up at her partner while still ensuring there will be weird wool patterns indented on half her face. "Go on a date with me?"

For a moment, he only looks confused. "Is this some kind of bizarre blackmail situation? 'Take me out or leave me to wither away on the dirty ass floor forever?'"

"Would that convince you?"

"Considering you're still under a spell and I've already gone over the ground rules several times over the past couple weeks, I'm gonna say that's a big fat no."

She pouts, which must make her look ridiculous considering her face is still smashed against the ground. Soul's lips twitch. "You're mean."

"Your insults need work, Albarn."

"Come ooooon," she whines, rolling onto her back in that small space between the couch and the coffee table just so she can look up at him with the full force of her treacherous puppy dog eyes. "I'm bored! All we do is go to school and train and come home and cuddle while we watch movies. Kid still won't let us take any active missions because of my so-called curse, even though it's been two weeks since I woke up and they still haven't found the witch. It gives us nothing to do."

Clay and Akane have been struggling to catch the woman's tail, so Kid sent Black Star and Tsubaki to join them on their mission yesterday. Maka has no doubt the loudmouthed assassin will escalate things exponentially, but still. It sucks being left to do nothing, especially when it's her own wellbeing that's on the line.

She never realized how boring and monotonous civilian life is until she was forced off active duty.

Soul levels her with a disapproving look. "Kid's just being careful. He wants you to be safe."

"He's being ridiculous."

" _You're_ ridiculous," Soul corrects. "Kid just adores you and doesn't want to be responsible for sending you abroad only for your impaired judgement to get your body returned in pieces. You know how much he cares about you."

It's not an exaggeration. Kid and Maka have always been close, the only two among their immediate friends who prefer to read and spar intellectually instead of performing raucous mischief around the city. Plus, Kid is the only one who listens to her when she gushes about cool facts she learns at the library instead of tuning her out or purposefully pretending to snore, like Soul does.

But ever since Kid took over his late father's position as the reigning Death God, he and Maka have grown even more inseparable. Though all their friends did their best to support him during the stressful transition, only the green-eyed scythemeister seemed to be able to keep him steady. His weapons were his support, but she was his anchor. She took over all immediate clerical duties in regards to his post, helped keep him on a balanced schedule, and forced him to take breaks whenever he overworked himself, which was far more often than was healthy during those first few months. Even for a god.

Plus, she dealt with his newfound solemnity a lot better than the rest of them, taking it in stride instead of being wary and cautious. She suspects that's a strong reason for why Kid leans on her so much more than everyone else.

The young reaper changed a lot after he lost his father. It haunted him in a way he refused to show, and while he worked hard to rid himself of his neurotic tendencies so they wouldn't get in the way of his new position, it also hardened him in a way Maka hated to see.

Now, he's too serious for his own good. Too intense, too focused on his mission, on keeping everyone safe, on protecting the truce with the witches that once saved their lives. Sometimes it feels like he aged a hundred years overnight and Maka often worries that the toll of his inherited position may be getting to him more than they realize.

But he's still Kid, _their_ Kid. An irreplaceable member of the now disbanded Spartoi and a very good friend of hers, whether he's obsessed with symmetry or not. She wouldn't have it any other way.

Knowing that Soul is right, Maka lets out a deep sigh and pouts, her view of the world still upside down from her spot on the ground. "Fiiiiine. But if you're not going to stick your dick in me, the least you can do is take me out a few times and remind me why I find you cute in the first place."

This position was a great idea because it gives her a full view to the deep flush crawling up his neck. "You grope my ass when I'm not looking and then look away and whistle when I turn around, as if I won't know it's you," he points out dryly. "Do you really need a reminder?"

She thinks about it for a moment then sheepishly concedes. "Point. But it still doesn't hurt to be pampered. Girls like to be treated like princesses sometimes, y'know?"

"Even my stubborn, hotheaded, I-can-handle-it-myself, I-don't-need-anyone-else, maneater of a meister?"

She sticks out her tongue. "Even her."

Soul sighs. Tips his head up to stare at the ceiling like he can't believe he's even considering this ridiculous plan of hers. "Fine," he grumbles eventually, cracking a wry smile when she lets out a shriek of excitement. "Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, I know. Whatever. It's Saturday. I could use the excuse to get out of the house. Do you even know what you want to do on this date of yours?"

"Ours," she corrects, "and duh, of course I do." She squeals again and is on her feet so fast that Soul doesn't have a chance to steady himself before he's tackled to the ground. "Thank you, thank you, _thank_ you! You won't regret it, I promise!"

He lets out a small chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of her head before he can talk himself out of it. "Calm down, bookworm. It's just a date."

"It's a date with the boy I love," she corrects. "That _is_ a big deal, Soul. The biggest."

Pink dusts his cheeks. "You're a fucking dork."

"Hell yeah I am. And don't you forget it." She snuggles into his chest for another couple beats before she pries herself off and bounds off towards her bedroom. "I need to get ready!" she shrieks. "We'll leave in half an hour—and dress appropriately, Soul. We're going _skating_."

-x-

Thirty-two minutes later, Soul finally emerges from his bedroom to where Maka is already waiting on the sofa.

She takes on look at him and bursts out laughing.

Puffy grey winter coat. Thick, knitted beanie. Coupled with the deep red scarf wrapped around his neck that she'd originally gotten for him as a gift before their first mission in the tundra, Soul looks like the poster child for a hot chocolate commercial or a bystander in an advertisement for some sort of winter sport competition, and fuck if he isn't the cutest thing she's ever freaking seen.

But he's also ridiculous, and she laughs and laughs and laughs so hard that she physically can't breathe. She has to clutch her stomach and bend at the waist, she's laughing so damn hard.

Soul glances at her normal schoolgirl attire and immediately realizes his mistake. His eyes go wide in horror. "You told me to dress for skating!"

"Yeah, _roller_ skating. Do you know how much money it would cost to keep an ice rink cold enough in this crazy desert weather? Kid would never. He takes budgeting very seriously." Maka can barely choke out the words through fits of uncontrollable laughter.

With a growl, he immediately begins ripping off his layers as he says, "God fucking damn it, Maka! That's it! I'm done! We're staying home!"

"Oh, come on," she wheezes. "Don't be like that." Her eyes are blurry. Her lungs are full. Sweet Death, she's officially laughed herself to tears.

"Fuck off!"

"Language!"

"You're not my mother. Don't tell me what to do!"

"Well, it's a good thing I'm not, because then I couldn't dream about—"

" _Don't you dare finish that sentence!_ "

"Oh, Soul," she croons, sidling up to him so she can wrap her arms around his waist from behind. "Sweet, sweet Soul." He continues to march towards his bedroom anyway, dragging her along and struggling to angrily strip more layers as he goes. "You're so cute, I can barely handle it. Seriously, I don't think it's physically possible for someone to be as adorable as you."

"Eat. A. _Dick_ ," he growls, then, before she can cheekily respond, he hisses, "Don't! Say _anything._ "

She couldn't hide her smile if she tried. "Marry me?"

He stumbles so hard he almost sends them both plummeting to the ground in a heap. "MAKA."

"Would you believe me if I said I meant it?"

"You're—"

"Under a spell, I know." She lets out a dramatic sigh. "I swear, if I have to hear you say that phrase one more time, I'm going to throw myself off the highest point of the Academy. But right now, we have a date to make. You promised, Soul. You can't break your promise."

He visibly deflates. "You're the worst."

"I love you?" she offers hopefully.

A scoff. "Yeah, yeah. Now get off. I need to change."

"Aw, but—"

"Maka."

"Fine," she pouts, "but I'm still mad at you anyway."

"Why, because I won't agree to take advantage of you while you're under a spell?"

Shaking her head, she reaches up to flick his hair. "Because you took out my bow."

-x-

As it turns out, Soul has never gone roller skating before.

It shouldn't be a surprise; he didn't exactly have the most normal childhood. But Maka is a strong believer in rites of passage, and an even stronger believer of "if you haven't fallen on your ass repeatedly as a child while trying to maintain your balance on eight tiny wheels, you haven't lived." Competitiveness is her shtick and dares are her kryptonite. She has many stories about Star kicking her ass on rollerblades when they were children, and she's excited to introduce someone to the sport who she knows won't automatically surpass her. It'll be nice to be the competent one for once.

Maka finds herself struggling to hold back a laugh as her cool-as-sin partner struggles to tie his rented skates like he's three years old and has never attempted a knot before.

She ends up having to fasten the laces for him, mostly because he leaves them loose like one of his skater shoes and that's a sure way to get a broken ankle. Her hands may be tiny, but they are strong. She is secretly pleased when he winces as she pulls the laces tight.

"Do you want to keep both your ankles, Soul?"

"Well, yeah but—"

"Then shut up and let me work."

By the time they hobble off to the rink, her partner is visibly tense. Anyone else might think his face is simply in resting bitch mode, but she knows better. The force at which he's currently gripping her arm as she leads him towards the rink's entrance is starting to cut off her circulation.

"Relax, Soul," she soothes. "I've got you. You know I won't let you fall."

"You better not," he grumbles. "If I crack my head open and die before I'm legal, I'd at least like the last song I hear not to be some atrocious bop from the eighties. Seriously, it's bad enough that there are colorful flashing lights everywhere. Do they really have to blast the soundtrack to some cheesy old-school roller derby movie?"

She struggles to hide her laugh. "Careful, Soul, your inner pretentious musician is coming out."

"It's a valid concern!"

It takes several tries and cooing prompts to coax Soul onto the rink. A lot of people, including a few snickering children, pass them where they argue and hover by the entrance. They must be a hilarious sight: tiny little blonde attempting to talk a towering, gangly-armed demon boy off a literal edge.

Maka thinks they look perfect together.

Eventually it's his pride that wins out—because hell if Soul Eater Evans is going to be outskated by that helmet-wearing preteen who blew a raspberry at him while soaring past at an alarmingly fast pace. Maka has to bite her tongue to hide her laughs as her partner tightens his grip on her arm and hisses, "Don't you dare let go," before allowing her to drag him into the flow of skaters.

They move slowly. He refuses to let go of her arm. When that proves to be ineffective, she pries off his grip so she can lead him forward by the hands instead, skating backwards in front of him.

"Come on, just kick off with your weight! Push, push, glide; push, push—you're not pushing, Soul! You're just gliding." To be exact, he's just letting her drag him along while he stiffly keeps his wheeled feet firmly planted on the wooden floors as if not breathing will keep him from falling on his ass. People continue to skate past them, many of them stifling obvious laughs.

"I'm—trying," he grits out. His feet do not move. To be fair, she can't blame him. Soul slouches over enough on a daily basis that he could be distantly related to the candy cane, and candy canes are not known for their balance. His spine is not used to this kind of upright labor.

"You're doing great!" she says encouragingly, making him scowl.

"Stop talking to me like I'm a preschooler who needs the validation to survive."

"Well—"

She's not sure what happens because she's fairly certain she doesn't see his feet move, but he must shift his balance or attempt a push or _something_ because all of a sudden, he's flailing forward with a yelp like a keeling, shadowy tower about to crush her into a pancake.

Her eyes go wide. "Soul—!"

But it's too late. The ball is already rolling, and she overestimated her own balance on eight wheels while a giant, flailing beanpole is toppling on top of her. It's like trying to save a panicking person who's drowning. If the victim isn't calm, they all go down.

And down they go.

"What a loser," a snotty kid snickers as he skates past the heap on the ground that is the long-limbed Death Scythe crushing his tiny blond meister.

Soul groans into her neck. "I shouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning."

Sympathetically, Maka pats his back and tells him he's squishing her boob.

-x-

"Here," she says, placing the ice pack on his head. "For your battle wounds. And this—" She presents an ice cream cone the size of Mount Everest, piled so high that even daredevils would feel nervous. "—is for the wounds on your fragile pride and soul."

Her partner scowls at her hilarious joke but snatches the cone from her hand anyway. Miffed as he is, he would never turn down food. It goes against everything he believes in.

They're sitting on the edge of the fountain downtown after what Maka would claim was a very successful skating session, though Soul and his three thousand bruises would probably beg to differ. She'd left him there to find ice because he was far too sore to walk, and she returned with two types because she is a firm believer of positive reinforcement. Despite his constant complaints, he was such a good sport, humoring her starry-eyed romantic curse brain like an absolute pro. He deserves the treat.

Plus, she feels kind of bad for laughing at him so much over the past couple hours. But she wouldn't trade it for anything.

"You didn't get a cone for yourself?" He eyes her carefully as he slathers the rapidly melting dessert with his abnormally long and criminally attractive tongue.

"I'm sharing yours," she says as if it should be obvious. When his face pinches with distaste—he isn't called Eater without reason, and sharing food is not his favorite hobby—Maka bites back a snicker. "Out of all the things you've gone along with today, you're going to draw the line at letting me have a bite of your ice cream? Really?"

"Maybe next time you try to recreate one of your cheesy romantic comedies, choose an activity that doesn't almost give me a concussion and I'll be more generous."

Her eyes brighten. "Next time?" she repeats, and Soul snorts.

"You're lucky you're so damn cute."

Banter as they might, Maka is glowing. She can't remember feeling this carefree. She may have a reputation for being reckless, but she's also cautious in all the ways she wishes she wasn't—or at least, she _used_ to be, before she woke up after a week-long coma and found it impossible not to openly ogle how cute her weapon can be—and allowing herself to feel this way around Soul is like having a giant weight lifted off her chest that allows her angel-winged soul to soar.

Her partner can grumble and groan and complain all he wants, but he can't fool her. He is soft. The sweetest little marshmallow human around.

It's clear how much he cares about her. She doesn't know how she never saw it before. So why isn't it clear how much _she_ cares about _him_? Why won't he believe her?

_It's the spell_ , he keeps insisting. And what if he's right? What if the curse is affecting her mental state more than she realizes? Her emotions feel real to her, but magic is tricky that way. It could manipulate everything she's ever thought and felt and she'd never know any better. It could change her view on everything, morph her into another person, and she'd be heedless to stop it because she wouldn't even know to fight.

But then she takes one look at his face and feels her chest fill with such warmth and affection that she just knows. She _knows_. This can't be fake. This can't be anything but the truth.

...Right?

Realizing that she's been staring at him in silence long enough that his brows have started to furrow with concern, she parts her lips, eyelashes fluttering innocently. "Ahh?"

He takes one look at her waiting tongue, turns beet red, and angles the cone for her to take a lick. "You're the worst," he grumbles.

Maka beams.

"What's up with the bag, anyway?" he asks, tilting his chin towards the gift bag she returned with in her other hand. "If you bought some ice cream for later, we're going to have to book it home now if you don't want it to turn into teeth-rotting soup."

"It's not ice cream—it's your present! I was going to save it for your birthday, but I couldn't wait so I decided to get it for you now. I think you more than deserve it after the strenuous physical labor I put your lazy ass through."

Soul raises a brow at her. "If giving gifts on platonic I'm-humoring-you-because-you're-under-a-spell-but-you're-also-kind-of-terrifying-so-I-can't-tell-you-no dates is a thing, I can't be blamed for being unaware. This is kind of new to me, you know."

She rolls her eyes. "Just open it, you dork."

After handing her the ice cream cone which she happily starts to lap up like a pup, he pulls out the tissue paper and moves to toss it onto the ground before he notices Maka's warning glare. He dutifully tucks the crinkly material under his arm instead. Peers into the bag. His eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

It's a leather jacket. Not real leather, of course, because Patty would pummel them to hell if they ever supported the cruel skinning of cows, but the nice fake kind that you can only get at official stores that sell nothing but fake leather. The kind that costs a fortune.

"To replace the one you lost," she says. "From, you know. When I bled all over it."

Tactful, as always. Just the reminder of the Mission That Went Wrong makes Soul's jaw tighten and Maka briefly tenses, wondering if maybe she did this all wrong and she's as terrible at this whole dating thing as she was scared she'd be.

She wanted this to be a fun excursion for the both of them, wanted to make her weapon as happy as he makes her, but the entire time, he's been grumbling and unhappy, complaining every step of the way. She knows that's just the way he is, just his face, especially recently, since she hasn't exactly been making these past few weeks easy on him and none of their friends seem to be cutting him any slack either.

Part of her hoped that by getting him out of the house and doing a date-like thing would loosen him up a bit. Get him to stop trying so hard, to lessen his restraint, just a little. He's been so stressed lately, trying to be a stand-up guy who won't take advantage of his meister even when she can't seem to control her mouth.

But—well. She only seems to keep screwing things up.

She _always_ screws things up. It's in her blood, after all.

"I'm sorry," she blurts out when he continues to stare at the jacket with an unreadable expression. "I can return it if you don't like it or if you want something else or—"

"Maka." He stops her with just her name, just a look. All it ever takes him is a look, and this one is all hidden softness and lovely reds. "Shut up. It's perfect. Thank you."

Those few words light up her entire world.

-x-

Later that afternoon, Soul is in the kitchen making pasta while Maka showers when he hears a startled shriek.

He bursts into the bathroom so forcefully that the door slams into the wall, both hands gripping a ladle still dripping with tomato sauce, ready to swing. "MAKA! What happened? What's wrong?!"

His meister is standing in the bath, clutching the shower curtain against her naked body like a towel. For a moment, Soul loses his train of thought because holy _fuck_ , she's so hot with water dripping down her slender shoulders and a warm flush crawling over her skin. She grimaces at the sight of him. "Sorry, sorry! It's fine, I overreacted, I was just startled when he popped in, it's no big deal."

" _He_? He who?!" There's no one else in the tiny room except—

That's when Soul realizes that the mirror is an image of the Death Room instead of a reflection, and standing right in the center is Kid, who presses both hands over his eyes. Every visible inch of his deathly pale skin is flushed with pink.

"I—I apologize," Kid stammers, and Soul is so stunned by the sight of the reaper actually _blushing_ that he forgets to be mad. "I should've rang first. I didn't think you would be, uh—"

"It's fine!" Maka squeaks, clutching the shower curtain tighter against her body. "Did you need something?"

"I can call back—"

"There's no need; you're already here. It would be silly to tell you to go now." Her face is cherry red. "So what is it? Is it about Black Star? Did they find the witch?"

"I—yes. Actually, it's—well, can I just—" Kid starts to move his hands so he can make eye contact while he's speaking, but when Soul lets out a rumbling growl, his fingers snap together again. "Well!" he says loudly. "I'll just, uh, get to it then. Black Star and Tsubaki think they found the witch but are uncertain if she's the right one. I have them on the other line. Is it alright if I transfer you through so you can confirm with them directly?"

Maka's eyes go wide as saucers. "Now?"

"Considering he currently has the witch tied up against a tree, I'd say yes. We need confirmation as soon as possible so we can either bring her in or get them to release her. It's going to be a PR nightmare if the latter is the case, but—"

"I'll handle it," she says immediately, dropping her embarrassment like a slab of ice. Her expression is a mix of fearless determination and soft reassurance. "It's fine. Send Star through. Soul and I will deal with it either way."

Kid's hands relax against his face enough that he can send her an appreciative glance. "Thank you, Maka." Then he seems to remember that she's naked and snaps his hands back into place. He coughs. "Well, I guess I'll just—"

"Yeah, that'd probably be a good—"

"—and let you get to it—"

"—until we get this sorted out—"

"Before I go though," he blurts over their combined, embarrassed babbling, "you should probably know—"

"What is it?" Maka furrows her brows, looking concerned.

"The pole for your shower curtain is crooked."

The mirror flickers, and within the next heartbeat, the image of the Death God is replaced by a close up of Black Star's face.

"—how dare you mute a god and put me on hold, you pussy-faced bastar—oh hey!" Black Star says when he realizes that his side of the mirror call is now live. He pulls back just enough that his face is no longer pressed obnoxiously against the screen. "LOYAL FOLLOWERS, BEHOLD. YOUR GOD DEMANDS THAT YOU—dude, is Maka _naked_?"

Soul growls loudly. It was one thing for Kid to see her like this; he was obviously embarrassed about it, and Soul is ninety percent sure that the reaper is asexual.

But Black Star is a pervert. A _shameless_ pervert.

And that pervert is currently dying of laughter.

"Were you two getting it freaky up in the tub or something? It's about damn time! I was almost scared that you'd actually make it through this whole curse without copping a single feel, so I am a proud bro right now."

Soul bares his teeth. "Shut the fuck up, you asshole. Maka was just showering when Kid jumped in with a call. That's it."

"So _Kid_ made the first move? Wow, I totally lost _that_ bet—"

"Star!" Maka shrieks. Her green eyes are wide. She glances quickly at Soul before snapping her gaze back to the assassin as she says, almost desperately, "The witch?"

"Right." Black Star nods and backs up from the mirror, revealing where Tsubaki is in sword mode, her shadow tendrils restraining a woman to the tree. "This is the one you were looking for, yeah? Honestly don't know why those other plebs had such a hard time finding her; it was a piece of cake."

"Star," Soul says slowly as Maka slaps a hand to her forehead with a groan. "You do realize that woman is blonde, right? With dog ears? We specifically said that the person we're looking for is a redheaded fox witch."

He blinks. "You did? Ohhhh. Well, why didn't you say that from the beginning?"

Behind him, Tsubaki sighs.

* * *

Soul has long since decided that there's nothing cuter than a sleepy Maka in the morning, eyes half-lidded and still dressed in one of his sleep shirts, which by this point has usually hitched up her thigh as she drapes one sinful leg over his hip.

Unfortunately, she's an early riser, his meister, all fervent passion and soaring ambition, and he loves that about her, he does—when it doesn't interfere with his sleep schedule or his ability to sneak in a cuddle session before noon.

But this isn't just early. This is _obscene_. The sun isn't even up yet. Waking up to empty sheets next to him and no warm, soft, Maka-shaped body against his side makes his grumpy face even more sullen than usual. He curses the god who blessed his partner with the ability to be a morning person as he drags his limbs out of bed, still half-asleep but mostly needy and more than a little selfish.

How dare she want to see the sun before it rises and sets? She's supposed to love him, damn it. Shouldn't she want to spend all day in bed by his side like the warmest, prettiest pillow known to man?

If he's going to drape himself over her body like a cloak, she can't be opposed. It's her fault; she's the one who turned him into this needy, touch-starved plushie of a man. She spoils him with her constant hugs and then expects him to survive more than a second without them. Absurd.

He's shuffling down the hall towards the living room when he hears a low moan.

His muscles coil, spine pulling tight. His wide eyes snap to the closed door beside him, knowing deep in his mind that he already knows what's happening but is unable to comprehend the significance and breathing is suddenly, painfully hard.

A light gasp followed by another moan. A hitched breath. Sweet, sweet sounds, throaty and subdued, like she's trying so desperately to keep quiet but can't manage it. "Soul," she whimpers, but she's not talking to him, not really, and for a moment his vision goes completely white.

Something else is painfully hard now, too.

"Soul," she gasps again, and though the door remains closed and he's too frozen to move, he can see her as clear as day. Spread out on her bed, legs parted, fingers working magic. He can picture her like fucking torture, all flushed skin and bright eyes filled with want, and when he hears another sound, quiet and wet, like something he can't describe and has never seen but somehow _knows_ , deep in his gut, like a cursed instinct buried in the torturous, hormone-driven part of his brain—he can't _breathe_. All oxygen flees his body and his blood has certainly traveled somewhere else.

His hand jerks its way to the front of his pants without his permission—just to lessen the agonizing pressure because _god_ , he wants he wants he _wants_ , so badly—but he miscalculated how closely he'd gravitated towards her door because his knuckles slam against the knob in his haste, the loud bang echoing like fucking thunder through their now-silent home.

"…S-Soul?" This time she's definitely speaking to him, just as breathless, chest halted, but for different reasons.

He has to clear his throat and pretend he isn't shaking. "Y-yeah," he calls back through the wood. "I—sorry." _Fuck_. "Was just heading to the bathroom." _Liar, liar, liar_.

There's a tiny pause. "Soul, can you come in here?"

Into the room where she'd just been touching herself a minute ago? Uhhh, how about _hell no_. "T-that's okay! I think I'm going to just—" _Throw myself off the roof and hope the impact erases my very existence_. "—go back to bed. Or—yeah." As if he'll ever be able to sleep normally again after this.

"Soul, please?" It's not her meister voice—tentative and unsure, so different from the all-encompassing commander he's so used to—but it seizes his blood all the same.

Struggling to swallow, he braces himself as he cracks open the door and steps into her bedroom. They haven't used it in weeks, not since she first woke up from her cursed nap and he realized denying her anything was going to be near impossible so he might as well save his energy for when it counts.

He thought that _his_ bedroom, where they spend all too many hours cuddling around not-so-hidden boners, was the most sinful out of the two. But if she's been turning her own room into some secret self-service den where she makes waves while he sleeps, he doesn't know how he's ever supposed to think normally again.

Maka is sitting up in her bed, knobby knees curled beneath her tiny frame. Even in the darkness of her room, only broken by the faint glow of the hallway nightlight spilling in from behind him, he can see her blush. _Feel_ it, like a warmth binding his soul to hers. Her hands grasp at the sheets at her sides, and he finds himself wondering which one had just been inside her. Both? Maybe something else?

His mind nearly convulses. The floor needs to swallow him up for eternity, and pronto.

"Did you… hear me?" She's whispering, which is pointless considering Blair hasn't lived here for months and they're both wide awake, but the hushed note of her voice only reminds him of her stifled moans and he suddenly can't look anywhere near her face.

"Maka, fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Soul, I'm not mad."

She's not? Surely that's the curse speaking. Had he walked in on her masturbating a month ago, she would've put a dent in his skull and avoided him for weeks. The fact that she's the one who demanded his presence in here after being caught is either good fortune as per the spell or bad because she wants to see his face before she kills him.

In his surprise, his gaze snaps back towards her just in time to see her shake her head. "I'm not," she repeats quietly. Fiddles with the sheets again. "I want… I still need—"

Realization settles. His lungs seize. "Maka, I _can't_ , you know I can't—"

"Not that!" Her face is pink. "I know you can't do… _that_ , or won't, or whatever, but I just… I…"

"Maka?" Concern overrides his embarrassing tomato of a face, though his color does not change. Whatever his issues, she always comes first, and he will stand by that even if he is rapidly approaching death by blue balls because none of it matters if it's what she needs.

"I want you to watch me."

Tomato, meet fire. For a long moment, he is nothing but a blubbering, gaping, hopeful mess of a boy, and he wants to think he knew what she said but is also really hoping she didn't say what he thinks she did because there's only so much he can deny when she's staring at him with green eyes so big and sweet and hesitant, like she's laying her whole heart down in front of him and is scared he might step all over her.

" _Maka_ ," he says in a hushed voice, his tenor deep and reverent. He wants to say more. He _needs_ to, so she'll understand. But his mouth refuses to move.

Never releasing his gaze, she slowly untucks her legs from under her and eases onto her back as she whispers, "You don't have to do anything. Just watch."

In retrospect, the first touch is almost innocent, just a light hand to her chest as if she hopes the pressure will calm her racing heart, but at this point, anything would seem erotic to his undersexed mind.

Then, with a shaky exhale, she parts her knees and blows up his fucking world.

He's seen her naked before—once in a flash of skin and shrieks for him not to look after she lost a bet to Black Star and had to skinny dip in Kid's pool, and again when he bathed her a couple weeks prior because he mistook her fatigue to mean innocence—but it's never been like this, never in this context. She's not even naked now, is still drowning in his oversized cotton shirt that she insists on wearing to bed, but that space between her legs is uncharted territory. Never been conquered, never even been a _possibility_ until this very moment.

When her hand finally reaches its destination, they both let out a simultaneous groan.

She's still slick, still wet—he can hear it, _see_ it, as her fingers slide so easily through her folds. For him, he's like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time and he almost forgets that she'd been doing this before he arrived—that she may be impossibly more gone that he is—and so that slow build-up he's expecting to get her ready, it doesn't exist. She goes straight for gold and presses two fingers inside her core and he loses all feeling in his knees.

He should look away. If he was a good enough man, he would. But he's not, and she's a fucking vision, the way she moves, the way she gasps, the way she stares at him with half-lidded eyes filled with desire and these perfect fucking sounds he couldn't make up even in his dreams.

"Soul," she cries out, fingers twisted now, rhythmic in their expertise. Her other hand helps, rubbing at the spot above where her fingers disappear, and Soul sees fucking stars, having her call out his name while she's like this, right in front of him—it's like something from a dream. _Better_ than a dream, because his nighttime wants are always her, and this is more than anything his fruitless brain could ever imagine.

"Maka." Her name escapes his lips in a burst, this low, strangled groan of a sound he barely recognizes as his own. His hand squeezes the front of his pants before he can stop it, and the instant his pleasure spikes, he registers what he's done and he forces his grip to release, guilty.

"No," she whispers. "Don't stop. Please, Soul. I want you to come with me."

His whole body jerks. He has to slam his hand against the wall beside him to keep from collapsing in a boyish, hormonal heap. " _Maka_."

"Please." Her voice is breathy; begging. Shoulders taut and fingers working faster, deeper. "I want you so badly. I dream of you all the time, of you touching me like this, inside of me like this. Your weight, the pressure…" She breaks off with a sharp cry as her fingers rub her _just right_ , and her hips jerk off the bed in the most erotic fucking thing he's ever seen. His sweet, innocent meister, surrendering control right before his eyes while imagining it's to him.

How the fuck is he ever supposed to think again?

"But if you won't let me touch you like I'm dying to, let me see you touch yourself." She's nearly panting now. Breaths short and gasping with need. "Please, Soul? For me? I need you."

His dick is free from the confines of his pants with embarrassing speed. Surprisingly, it's not his name that does it for him this time, not the pleading expression on her face and the desperation in her every pant. It's the other three words—not the ones he really wants, the ones she says often these days but never with the context his heart needs, but still just as powerful. The thought that she needs him as much as he requires her existence to so much as breathe.

He doesn't approach the bed as he touches himself, and remarkably, she doesn't ask him to. Instead, he stays by the door, gripping the handle with one hand as his other jerks his dick like his life depends on it, not trusting himself to get anywhere near her when they're both wound up and his cock is out like this, and Maka loses herself to her gasps of pleasure as they work themselves to their end.

Soul comes first. He's not proud of it. He'd been so wound up just from hearing her that it shouldn't be a surprise he's this much of an embarrassment, and two and a half weeks of denying her open advances surely haven't helped. He catches his release in the edge of his shirt so he doesn't paint her floor like a fucking idiot as he fails to muffle his groans.

Seeing him unravel seems to push Maka off the edge to because her cries become soundless gasps as she falls, writhing, tense, the most beautiful fucking thing he's ever seen. He could watch her come for hours but also his limbs have turned to jelly, so he finds a happy medium and slides his back down the wall until he's a molten pile of mush on the ground, staring at her in a thrumming haze.

This is not the first time he's worked himself over the peak before—after all, he lives in close quarters with a girl who wears mini-skirts on a daily basis and doesn't seem to understand the meaning of personal space—but it's the first time it's felt like _that_. His brain is so numb he doesn't think he'll ever be able to stand again.

"Soul?" she whispers. She doesn't say anything else, doesn't move aside from the shuddering rise and fall of her chest, but her voice beckons him all the same. He wants to drown in oblivion and never move, but even missing the majority of his brain cells post-orgasm, his soul still bleeds for hers. Yearning, reaching, needing.

He's embarrassed and more than a little ashamed of himself for succumbing to these biological urges when he knows she's not in her right mind—but in his defense, he's not in his right mind either. He never is, when it comes to her.

"Nnnng." It takes a long moment for him to remember that his limbs need direction and motivation if they're ever going to move. Guiding them into an awkward crawl-slash-shuffle is like a kid trying to walk around in a sweater and pants that are far too big for him, his prepubescent balance hindered even more by the flopping fabric overextending his limbs.

Eventually, Soul makes it across the floor and has to yank his body up onto the bed in one jerky motion, collapsing on the mattress next to her like an undercooked pancake. He half-expects her to mount him like an unsuspecting giraffe, but instead she merely rolls onto her side to face him, hands tucked by her face, eyes so big and warm and full. She doesn't reach for him at all and he hates himself for being disappointed, but her gaze—it's like a blanket and he has never felt this content.

"Maka?" he whispers.

Her lips part slightly. She closes them in favor of nibbling on her bottom lip instead. She shakes her head against the pillow. "I'm okay. Just a little tired, is all. You know how it is."

His eyes are still trained on where her teeth had been teasing her plump lip. "Hn?"

Mirth sparkles behind her soft gaze. Her expression is gentle, so gentle, and when she reaches out to lightly cup his jaw with her fingers, _that_ is what truly makes his heart leap. More than anything else, more than what they'd done together mere moments before, nothing makes his heart feel as full as this except for when she looks at him like he's the most wonderful thing in the world.

A giant sap, he is. Very much so. Fortunately, Maka seems to like him that way.

"Go to sleep, you dork," she murmurs affectionately. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?" he whispers.

"Promise."

* * *

The next day, they drop by Gallows Mansion so Maka and Kid can deal with the disastrous public relations nightmare that will result from Black Star's inability to use his brain for more than three seconds.

Witches do not like to be accidentally mistaken for other criminals just because of their species, which is… more than fair. Unfortunately.

Since Maka tends to take on as much problem solving responsibility as she can to help out Kid—or at least, she _did_ , before Kid benched her because of her curse—Soul has had a front-row seat of how much bullshit even gods have to deal with in their current economy. Not only is Kid responsible for overseeing the Reaper's List and all the weapon-meister pairs at the DWMA who are tasked with hunting them down, but he is like a mayor-slash-manager-slash-CEO-type-administrator for the foremost witch-friendly city on the planet, as well as the global organization tasked with protecting innocent civilians with allies and partners all over the world.

That means there is a lot of sucking up to be done. It also means there is a fuck ton of paperwork.

Usually, Soul lets Maka take care of things with Kid on her own and spends that time either sleeping, listening to music, or staring at the clock for her to get back—which is barely an exaggeration—but these days, he refuses to let her out of his sight for more than a few hours. For obvious reasons.

And so he wakes up with her at the ass crack of dawn—a.k.a. before noon—and drags his feet as he sleepily drives them to Kid's house on his bike like the dutiful weapon he is.

They find the Death God in his garden—because yes, the highest entity in their land has taken up gardening as a hobby. When Soul first found out, he couldn't wrap his mind around it either.

" _I can't believe that out of all the hobbies in the world, you chose gardening_ ," Soul said to him, all those months ago.

Kid merely shrugged. " _The skills I learn while tending to my garden are transferable to the skills I need to run a controversial organization like the DWMA. No matter how perfectly I plan things, no matter how meticulously I take care of them, things can always grow beyond my control and I have to learn to adapt to them. It's good practice. "_

" _...Maka said that to you, didn't she?_ "

At that, the reaper cracked a smile. " _I think she meant for it to be an ironic metaphor or a pep talk during one of my tantrums. I don't think she ever expected me to take up horticulture as an avocation._ "

Their very own Death God, a proud father of plants. Who would've thought.

Now, Soul follows Maka onto the absurdly large terrace behind Kid's mansion to see their serious, professional friend wearing a straw hat and an apron as he crouches in the dirt. Liz and Patty sit on matching lawn chairs off to the side, basking in the sunlight. The former wears giant sunglasses as she flips through a magazine, managing to look unimpressed even when half her face is covered by shades, while her little sister lies on her stomach facing Kid, skimming through something on a DWMA tablet that looks surprisingly devoid of pictures.

"The crazy clown man wants to know about his security detail for his next tea party," Patty is saying. "Says he's got some of his witchy friends attending and needs the extra manpower. Wants Kim but not Jackie. Ox but not Harvar. Star and definitely Tsubaki."

Kid doesn't even look up from where his gloves are currently patting down dirt. "Tell Mr. Hatter that he'll take whoever we assign to him and there won't be any complaints."

There's a brief pause as Patty skillfully and somewhat exuberantly types something into the tablet. "He insists on Tsubaki."

An exhaled breath. Almost a sigh. "He can drop by Friday at noon for the weekly conference and I'll have crumpets ready for him. We'll discuss it then."

"The raisiny kind?"

"Don't insult me."

"Just checking!" Patty giggles.

"What's next?"

The younger pistol weapon hums absently as her fingers fly across the screen the screen. "There's an issue with the bossy people at the European branch of the Academy. La di da, management thingamabobs, who-das, and—oh boy, they are not happy. There are a lot of choice words here, Kiddo."

"Fax them through to our school's board of directors and jot a personal reminder for me to speak directly to them to smooth things over. If there's any talk of a coup, I want to hear about it."

"Chicken coop?"

"Patricia."

"Not that kind of coup, got it."

He exhales. "What's next?"

"Complaint from the museum," she reads off happily. "The art lady said that the same man keeps coming in to stare at his reflection in the artifacts and he's scaring away the customers—"

Kid groans. "Dorian Gray," he mutters grimly. "Skip that one; I'll come back to it later. I don't feel like dealing with his narcissism right now and he's utterly impossible to deal with unless you're willing to crawl on your knees."

It's clear they've been at this for a while. A gardening reaper trying to verbally work through menial city issues with help from his most childish weapon while primping his flowers… Soul almost wants to laugh. Patient as Kid may be, even Death Gods have their limits, and Kid's have nothing to do with saving the world from evil pre-kishins wreaking havoc or making peace with other countries.

No, their friend's kryptonite happens to come in the form of petty day-to-day mayoral tasks. Clearly the worst part of his all-consuming profession.

"You know that's not a good idea, Kid," Maka calls from where she and Soul have been observing him from the side, her voice light and teasing. "Dorian doesn't like to be ignored or put off, even for a minute. I don't care if it's just for a second when you're surrounded by friends. He'll know. He always knows."

Though it's obvious Kid isn't thrown by their appearance—he probably sensed them coming from miles away—he still turns to look at them like he's pleasantly surprised. He stands, perfect spine, perfect fucking everything, which is at clear odds with the dirt covering his gloves.

Two years later and it's still strange seeing the reaper look anything less than pristine.

"Maka, you've only been off duty for a few weeks and you're already trying to backseat drive my decisions," says Kid. "You really think you could do a better job than me?"

"Is that an actual question or are you being facetious?"

"If you want to be the one to deal with the Dorian Gray issue, be my guest. He's always liked you better than me anyway."

"Doesn't everyone?" Maka smiles and waves back at Patty, who looks ecstatic to see her. "Hey, Pat. Liz. Kid's got you guys working for him today? How cruel. It's a Sunday."

"Death Gods take no holidays," says Kid dutifully.

"Or Death God's weapons," Liz grumbles. "Can't a girl read a trashy magazine in peace around here? Seriously, Kid, I know you benched Maka because of the whole curse thing or whatever, but I am _not_ a secretary and Patty isn't either. We're not equipped for this kind of stuff."

"I didn't know tanning was such a strenuous activity for you," the reaper says, and Liz makes a face.

"She's right though, Kid," Maka adds. "You know I don't mind helping out. This whole keeping-me-off-active-duty thing has gone on too long. I'm lovestruck, not incompetent. I can still do my job, you know."

Kid eyes her stoically. "Help me deal with this PR crisis first and then we'll talk."

Maka brightens. "Deal!"

It makes Soul roll his eyes. Only his ridiculous bookworm of a meister would get excited over going back to gruelling, tedious, and often dangerous unpaid work. The nerd.

"Sissy's just in a bad mood because Kilik's still babysitting Angela while Star and 'Baki are gone," Patty explains, wiggling her toes absently in the air. "The twins are good about sis staying the night, but Ange asks way too many questions."

Liz throws her magazine at her sister's face. "I just want to get laid by my boyfriend. Is that really such a crime?!"

Peeing off his dirty gloves with the meticulousness of a scientist dealing with a very corrosive substance, Kid straightens his clothes and walks onto the patio to dispose of them. "Thank you for all your help, Patricia. Maka and I have some business to discuss inside, so please. The three of you should enjoy the rest of your day."

"Why do you even need me? Seems like Patty's doing pretty well as a replacement," Maka says teasingly.

Kid rubs his temples hard enough that his knuckles almost crack. "She's brilliant, that's indisputable, but she keeps adding keyboard animals to the end of every single message and it's driving me mad."

"Keyboard animals?"

"Let's just say it involves a fair amount of brackets, commas, and slashes in the form of her favorite mammals," he says grimly. "Sometimes even amphibians if she's feeling especially creative."

"Ahhhh."

"Wipe that smile off your face, Maka. It's not funny. I'm a Death God. Ruler of this city. Reaper of tainted souls. I'm supposed to be a professional. I can't have someone speaking on my behalf who ends all their sentences with Japanese-style emoticons and several lines of special keyboard characters in the shape of zoo animals."

"Patty, you're adorable," Maka calls over her shoulder, making the younger pistol beam.

Kid groans. "Please don't encourage her. She's rebellious enough as it is without her taking notes from _you_."

-x-

Several hours later, Soul walks into Kid's home office to see Maka holding her shirt up to her chest and Kid pressing a hand to her bare stomach.

His hands tighten within the confines of his pockets. "What the hell are you two doing?"

Maka glances up with a smile. "Soul! I was just showing Kid my scar."

"For purely scientific purposes," Kid adds.

"Scientific purposes," Soul echoes slowly. "Right."

"I'm no longer symmetrical anymore," she teases the reaper, a twinkle in her round green eyes. She is sitting on his desk, her legs dangling over the edge, and even then, she has to look up to Kid. Has to look up to everyone, she's so small, so slight, and yet in this room, Soul can tell that she's the largest thing any of them has ever seen. "Does that mean I'm no longer your favorite?"

"Maka, if you think this scar makes you any less perfect, you greatly underestimate yourself."

She practically preens. "That was a test and you passed with flying colors. I'm so proud. You're making OCD your bitch."

"I am vaguely certain it doesn't work that way, but if you insist." Kid waves her pampering hands away, but it's the way an owner talks adoringly to their cat who has taken up residence on their lap and refuses to go away. "Now come on. You've done enough today. Go hang out by the pool with the girls. I need to talk to Soul."

"What am I, your dog?" she says, but she doesn't protest as hops off the desk and kisses Soul's cheek before whirling to skip out of the Death God's home office, humming off-tune as she goes.

Soul levels the reaper with a flat look. "The fact that she willingly walked away so we could obviously discuss her means that she's planning on doing something reckless and you caved and gave her permission. What did you agree to?"

Kid exhales a tired sigh. "She wants to return to active duty."

"No."

"I'm giving you two a trial run first," the reaper adds, as if that makes everything better. "Nothing too difficult, and nothing that's too far for Kim to fly at the off chance that something were to go wrong. Just a state-local demon that we caught wind of last night. There have been a few reports of after-dark unrest and some very vivid dreams where people have been swearing they've seen wraiths around their homes, but the statements have flown under the radar until yesterday because I've… admittedly been behind in paperwork since Maka's stopped working for me."

"A nightmare demon."

Kid nods. "Yes. Another team could probably deal with it, but even when compromised, Maka is still far more equipped to deal with this kind of threat thanks to her anti-demon wavelength."

"Well, I said no," Soul repeats flatly. "She can barely go three seconds without staring at my ass and loudly sings romantic ballads in the shower that depict how badly she wants to _get down_. And you think she's in any mind to go after a fucking demon?"

"We've been sheltering her, and she's unhappy about it, and she has a right to be. Besides, the fact that she's angry is a good thing. It means that underneath the heightened emotions, she's still the same willful workaholic we know."

Soul's expression is dark. "You already told her yes."

"Would you have been able to deny her?"

They share a muted sigh.

"There's one more thing though," Kid adds quietly. "Black Star and Tsubaki—they think they're close to finding the witch, for real this time. They'll probably have her back within the week. I just thought you should know."

A warning, however thoughtful, is still a warning. Soul swallows. "That's… good. That's a good thing."

Kid's face is unreadable, but there's something in his eyes, not quite sympathy but not quite pity either, and Soul feels like he knows it, somehow, deep in his chest. Has the emotion branded in his gut but can't find the word to name it. "We should get back to the girls before they decide to do something reckless and blow up the pool."

"Hey, Kid?" he calls after him.

The reaper pauses but doesn't turn around. "Yes, Soul?"

There is a long pause. "Thanks. For telling me."

Another pause. A brusque nod. "Of course."

 


	3. scars are souvenirs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dreams and nightmares come true, in no particular order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we’d like to say we’re almost at the end but this chapter ended up being 783943326 words long, so… well. enjoy! xo

Soul is silent and unhappy on the train, which is a catastrophic combination.

_Broody_ is usually the word she uses to describe her weapon to anyone who doesn't understand his tendency to communicate in dry looks around people he isn't yet comfortable with. _Crabby_ typically works too, and _deadpan_ is just his face—when she doesn't make it her mission to turn him into a tomato, of course.

But there is a huge difference between his normal too-cool-for-school-and-emotions-and-other-lame-things vibe and his silences that are filled with so much weight she probably couldn't even cut through it with his blade. Maka has been his partner—has lived with him, been friends with him, been in love with him—long enough to tell the difference.

"You're mad."

His jaw twitches infinitesimally. They're sitting across from each other in their little spacious booth, facing each other but not looking at each other. He has his chin propped in his hand as he peers out the window at the dark scenery speeding by. He does not turn. "Am I?"

"It's not fair that you're mad. I'm not doing anything wrong. At the off-chance that Black Star and Tsubaki can't find the witch, this is going to be our new norm, and the sooner we adapt to fighting while like this, the sooner we can stop sitting on our asses and actually help hunt down demons and human souls on the Reaper's List like we were meant to."

"I'm not—" He grinds his teeth. " _—mad_."

"You can't even look at me," she accuses. "You're _furious_ , and you know what? It's fine if you want to be a dick and get angry or whatever, but what's not fine is that you're bottling it all up and moping instead of talking to me about it."

"Yeah, well, not all of us have the luxury of hiding behind the false confidence of a witch's curse, now do we?" he practically sneers.

She rears back in her seat like she'd been slapped. "What the hell is your problem? It's not like I _asked_ to be cursed! It's not like I wanted this. You think this is easy for me? Because it's not. I may act like I don't care every time you flinch away from my touch or push me away, but it _hurts_ , Soul. It really hurts."

"Maka," he says warningly. "Don't. I'm not in the mood."

"Well, too bad, because we're on our way to a mission right now and we're not going to be able to do anything if we can't even look at each other!" she yells.

It's after dark so there aren't many other people on the train with them, but she can feel the alarm in the souls of the few people that are close enough to hear their argument and she doesn't care.

"You're supposed to be my best friend! You're supposed to know me better than anyone else! You're supposed to _love_ me, even if you're too stubborn to admit it, but how can you claim to really feel that way about me if you won't even believe me now when I say that my feelings are my own?"

"Don't you think I _want_ to believe you?" he bursts out suddenly, head whipping around to look at her for the first time since they left Kid's house last night. "Don't you get that this is hard for me too?"

She rolls her eyes. "I know, I get it, it must be so difficult for you to continuously reject my advances, poor little you—"

" _That's not it!"_ he hisses. "That's not it at all!"

Maka blinks at his outburst, stunned, and for all his faults, it's clear that Soul immediately regrets blowing up like that. He runs a down his face, obviously frustrated, but she's the one that opened this door. She's the one who pushed this button, who demanded answers, and she knows that in this moment she's going to get them, whether she likes it or not.

"This is _normal_ to you," he says. "It may not _be_ normal for you—because god knows you were never this vocal about your emotions before this mess—but it _feels_ that way, when you're like this, when you're under this spell. You can't remember why you would ever act any different, and I don't blame you for that because it's not your fault.

"But this—Maka, this isn't normal to _me_. You've always been reckless and selfless and willing to put your ass on the line for someone else on a whim even when you're certain you'd never win—it's one of the reasons I've always respected you so much as a partner—but at least back then, even when you were at your wildest and most stubborn, you still had control over your own mind. Still had some kind of say in your actions, even if your feet would react before your mind could. You were still in the driver's seat, drag racing your way through hell without a helmet all because you could.

"Now though? You may be the same person you've always been, but it's like all your inhibitions and self-consciousness have been ripped away and you're left only with your carelessness and no sense of caution. All those things you've felt before but never acted on because you thought better of it or decided against it—they're real now. You couldn't hold them back if you tried. And don't you get how dangerous that is? Don't you understand how much that puts you in jeopardy? Don't you understand how hard it'll be for me to keep you safe if all that fear and hesitation has been wiped from your mind and you're incapable of feeling anything but adrenaline?"

There's an earnestness in his expression, a sort of desperation, a terror, that burns through his fiery gaze straight through her soul in a way she never thought she'd be able to feel without resonance. Because that's how strong his feelings about this are. That's how scared he is for her safety, how scared he has been since she bullied Kid into letting her take this mission. He's fucking _petrified_ , and he's been hiding it, because he didn't want to add another worry to her fleeting mind that might distract her even more.

Her mental state may be compromised, but even she can admit he's right. Fear is important. It's what makes them strong, what keeps them on their toes, keeps them smart. The same with pain. Without pain, they wouldn't know their own limitations and they'd push their fragile human bodies farther than they'd be able to take.

People who don't know her often think she's the smart one in their partnership, the responsible one, the anchor—all because she stands up straight and reads a lot of books—but that's never been true, not really.

The better one has always been Soul.

Talent does not come easy to her. Everything she is, everything she has, she works so fucking hard for. She's not inherently powerful like Black Star and Kid, who were born miles ahead of everyone else in terms of strength and only get stronger every time they so much as take a step. And she's not naturally smart like Tsubaki, who spends the majority of her time babysitting her wild meister and still manages to get excellent grades, or even Ox, who has never had to compromise his emotions for the sake of his drive.

Ox doesn't fear that his feelings for Kim will hold him back. He never has. He's always believed he could have both, something Maka has always struggled with, something Maka has always envied.

Maka studies for hours every single night to understand the concepts that come so easy to the spear meister. Works herself to the bone just to fail to keep up with Black Star's constantly advancing strength. She is teased for being a bookworm, but the truth of the matter is that reading is the only way she can feel like she might ever catch up. Like maybe she's not destined to be the side character of her own story. She has so much to learn, so much to accomplish, and she's not going to get there by sitting on her ass playing video games. She doesn't have that luxury.

She refuses to be left behind.

The one thing she has going for her is her advanced soul perception, spawned from a lifetime of watching other people and being forced to learn things from the outside. Passed down to her from her mother, and enhanced by the fact that she's been forced to grow up so fast, all on her own.

And Soul. She always has Soul.

Soul, who thinks she's brave and beautiful and reckless and stubborn, but also knows her better than anyone else, understands her better than she understands herself. Soul, who'd follow her through hell even when he knows she's being stupid. Soul, who gives her far more credit than she deserves.

She never wants to let him down.

But she's letting him down now.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her face downcast, her eyes filling with tears. "I never meant to upset you or even worry you. I just—you're so tense, all the time, so sad, especially lately, and I've been trying to make you happy, teasing you to make you laugh, but I didn't think—"

"Hey," he says softly. He's crouching in front of her now, one hand cupping her cheek, angling her gaze to meet his. "Maka, stop. It's fine. I'm not mad at you, just the situation. I know it's not your fault."

"But it _is_ ," she bursts out in hysterics, her throat all choked up with her shame, her tears flowing freely now, like rapids. "It is my fault—all of this! I'm the one who didn't sense the witch on patrol that day, the one who was stupid enough to get hit, the one who begged Kid to let us go on this mission, the one who's so fucking desperate not to be left behind that she doesn't even stop to think how this must make you—her weapon—feel, and I—"

Soul instantly pulls her into his arms as she starts to dissolve into tears, her cries becoming sobs and her emotions becoming a storm, flowing in waves, in a fucking tsunami, drowning him in it even though he's the one who's been silently hurting and she's supposed to be comforting _him_.

The thought only makes her cry harder.

"Hey, now," he murmurs, gently stroking her hair as she makes water paintings against his chest. "Maka, hey. It's okay. We're okay. You know I'd never let anything hurt you. Cool guys always protect their meisters, remember?"

"It's not that!" she tries to insist, but the words are muffled by cries into his shirt. "I'm supposed to be protecting you! Why am I always such a mess?!"

"You are a mess," he agrees with a low chuckle, "but you're _my_ mess. And I wouldn't trade you for anything else in the world."

She sniffles. "Not even a chance to travel back in time and see Ella Fitzgerald live in concert?"

His chest rumbles with a quiet laugh. "Not even that."

-x-

It's dark. Still. Quiet, save for the sound of something dripping in the background.

Cold cement presses into his cheeks, and Soul groans as he blinks into consciousness, sitting up blearily as he looks around and realizes he doesn't recognize this street at all.

Where the hell is he? Why does his head hurt? How the hell did he end up passed out in the middle of the fucking road?

Then, like a shock: Where the fuck is Maka?

He's on his feet in an instant, whirling around like a fucking tornado. He stumbles, weak, unsteady. He doesn't care. There is blood roaring through his ears and a herd of elephants trampling through his chest and it's like the entire world is tipped on its axis because he _can't fucking find Maka_.

"Maka?" he yells. "Maka! Where the hell are you? _Maka!"_

Only a distant echo answers.

He's running before he can think better of it, racing to some unknown destination like he's running _from_ something rather than towards it. He has no idea where he's going, has no idea how to breathe, but somehow he can't change direction like he's being physically pulled towards something even as this heavy, clawing weight consumes his entire chest.

Last thing he remembers, they were on a train going towards the location of their mission. They argued, and she cried, and they arrived at their destination, and then—nothing. He can't remember anything else after that.

"Maka!"

As if summoned by his sheer desperation, she appears, standing off to the side as he rounds a sharp corner and comes to a halting stop several feet away. Relief fills his veins, strong and fierce—she's alive, she's okay—but then he realizes she's not alone. And she's far from safe.

He is frozen. Not just because her body is shoved up against a brick wall by someone, a strong hand curled around her neck as she claws at it, a blade inches away from her skin—but because that someone is _him_.

It has his hair, and his face, and his eyes, and his blade, but it can't fucking be him because he's here, watching them, and yet it is, he knows it is, just as he knows the high-pitched hysterical laugh that escapes the Not-Him's lips as well as his own.

A black blood laugh.

"Please," Maka is begging, her voice choked and hoarse from the hand he has wrapped around her throat. "Soul, please." Her toes dangle inches from the ground, but she's not kicking, not fighting— _why the fuck isn't she fighting?!_ —and he realizes with horror that it's because it's him. She trusts him. Would never resist him, never hurt him. She _loves_ him.

And Soul is unable to move, frozen with terror, as he watches the other him smile a cruel smile and croon, "I love you, too," as he thrusts his transformed arm up through her stomach and into her chest.

He's screaming. He is _screaming_. A terrible, bloodcurdling, throat-destroying scream that fills the air and shatters his fucking eardrums and ruins his goddamn life because oh god oh god oh god no please no he can't breathe, he needs to get to her, why can't he move, move, _move_ —

And then he's moved without having taken a step because instead of standing off to the side, frozen and useless and watching it happen, he _is_ what happens. He is the other. He is the Soul in front of Maka, hand around her throat and _blade still buried in her chest_.

"Maka!" He instantly withdraws his arm and releases her throat, and oh god, he can _feel_ it, the way her flesh squelches as he slides his blade free, the way her blood gushes through and slathers his skin, the sensation of sliced skin and shredding muscle and her fucking bones as he pulls his body from where he's pierced between her ribs, _against_ her ribs, and he's choking down bile, barely able to breathe, as he transforms his arm back and catches her limp body against his.

He carefully lowers her to the ground, partly because she's complete dead weight against him but mostly because he can't feel his own fucking limbs so how can he possibly stand and support her when he can't even work his legs?

"Maka," he chokes out, and he's crying, he can barely see, as he holds her weak, shuddering body in his arms.

She coughs; the sound is hoarse. Blood dribbles down her chin. He reaches up to brush it away, but he only makes it worse because he's completely covered in her blood as if he somehow forgot, even though he can still feel the faint pulse of her heart through his fingers from when he'd barely missed it with his blade.

She lets her eyes fall shut.

"No," he whispers. "No no, no, no, NO." He clutches her tighter to his chest as if that will be enough to staunch the blood that is pooling onto the ground around his knees, soaking him to the bone. "Maka, fuck, please, fuck, stay with me. You need to _stay with me_ , Maka— _please!_ "

Her eyelids flutter, barely open. Lips parted, breaths nonexistent, even as her chest openly heaves. "Why?" Her voice isn't even a whisper. Her eyes, they're so fucking sad. "I… loved you. So much." She breathes in once, shakily. Breathes out, so slow, like every microscopic shift is utter agony and she is completely faded out. "How could you do this to me?"

"I'm sorry," he chokes, "I'm so fucking sorry, I didn't mean to, I didn't want this, I swear. I didn't—I didn't know, I tried to—I don't know what happened, I—Maka?" He cuts off with a sharp breath. She isn't breathing. Her eyelids no longer flutter. They remain open, glassy and dull, head lolled slightly against his chest. Terror freezes his soul. "Maka? _MAKA!"_

He's keeled over with screams. He can't help it. He doesn't care. He's the least cool weapon on the fucking planet and he doesn't care because she's fucking _dying_ in his arms, dead, not breathing, against his chest, because of _him_. Because he's useless, because he's dangerous, because he doesn't deserve her, he never has.

It was bad enough when he held her after the witch attacked, when he thought she'd been dying in his arms then. But knowing that this is his fault, that he's the one who killed her, makes him feel like he's fucking buried alive underground, lungs filling with soil and ruin and blood. He's her weapon, meant to protect her, give his life for her, never hurt her—and yet he's the reason she no longer breathes.

Her father was right. Soul was never good enough for her. He should've left her the moment he realized he had black blood running through his veins—always knew losing control was a possibility, knew he shouldn't have stayed near her, knew she was too stubborn to see him for the liability he was—but he didn't, because he was selfish, because he loved her, and he loved her too much to let her go. But now it's too late. _It's too late._

Before, he agonized over the fact that she might hate him when the spell is reversed and she realizes what he's done, but now he'd give anything to have her hate him for it. To have her never want to speak to him again, never want to see him, and leave him behind, like he's always feared she would.

Anything, if it means she'd be alive.

He is heaving into her chest some sort of animalistic roar that is not quite a cry but is definitely not a scream. He's wailing so deeply that his whole body aches, that there aren't even sounds anymore, not really, just airy howls of utter devastation, just wholly broken gasps of deep-seated anguish, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to pick himself up again. Doesn't know how he's supposed to stop and stand and go on when he knows this is all his fault.

"Maka, please," he sobs, "I'm so sorry, I love you, I'm sorry, don't leave me, _please_. Please, don't leave me, I'll do anything, _plea_ —"

_"SOUL!"_

He jerks forward so suddenly that it's like his whole world is flipped on his axis and then he's sitting up on the floor, legs extended in front of him, blinking in disorientation.

Gone is the dark alley. Gone is the bloody, limp body of his beloved meister.

Instead, she's kneeling in front of him, green eyes wide and open and very much alive.

"Jeez, Soul, you're lucky I moved out of the way in time or you would've cracked my head open with yours." She brushes back his hair from his forehead, brows knitted with concern. "You okay? You're looking a little pale. It took so long to wake you up I almost thought I'd have to jump into your dream and yank you out myself."

He somehow blinks without actually blinking. Dazed, uncomprehending. He can't get his mouth to move. "I… What?"

"The nightmare demon," she says, like it should be obvious. "Caught us both by surprise. Good thing I managed to snap out of it so fast or else the goddamn thing would've devoured both our souls—you can probably thank the curse for that for making it so easy for me to see through the demon's illusions—but it managed to get away."

The nightmare demon. The reason they're here in the first place. Does that mean none of it was real? That it was all just a dream?

He clenches and unclenches his fist. Tries to work his jaw. He is staring at her, unable to look away from her, from the brightness behind her eyes and the light flush to her healthy, living skin. His lungs are seized with trepidation, like they're waiting for him to blink and return to that fucking nightmare disaster that had ruined his whole world, but nothing changes.

She's still here. _She's still here._

"I'm kind of pissed it managed to escape like that," Maka is sighing, "but it's too late to dwell on it now. Still, it headed out that way and we've gotta go after it before it disappears for good, so we should _probabMMMMPH!"_

Her explanation is cut of when Soul grabs her face with both hands and crushes her mouth to his.

She tastes like fucking sunshine, and light, and mint, like the candy cane she'd been sucking on in the train that he'd struggled so hard not to watch for the sake of his own fragile sanity. Her lips are just as soft as he remembers, silky and plush and smooth, but he is greedier this time, wilder, angling her head back she he can kiss her deeper, slant his mouth over hers harder, like he's digging for gold. Likes he's trying to fuse with her soul.

He only breaks away when his lungs feel ready to burst, and even then he heaves against her mouth, too terrified and filled with adrenaline to back away from her more than a fucking inch, for more than a moment. He gazes down at her then, and her eyes are still half-fluttered shut, her breaths shallow, cheeks flushed, filled with need, as she clutches the front of his shirt with such desperation like she knows she'll fall if she lets go.

"S-Soul, I—"

This time he is not shy with his tongue. He doesn't just want to taste her, to feel her, but wants to memorize her, every inch, every crevice, every part of her, as if just doing so will be enough to immortalize her soul. He's towering over her now on his knees, curled over her, her hands still grasping him to keep her stolen balance, but he doesn't lessen the pressure, doesn't even the scales, keeps pushing and pushing and taking and kissing and breathing directly into her lungs. He's pressed so tightly against her that he can feel the racing _beat-beat-beat_ of her heart against his.

"Soul," she gasps when he finally pulls away again, only this time to kiss across her jaw, and then her neck, until he can smooth his tongue over her quickened pulse through her carotid artery, fast, safe, _alive_. "Soul, I—I'm so confused. What happened? Are you okay?"

"You're alive," he whispers against her neck. "I thought I killed you."

He feels her gasp more than he hears it. Closes his mouth over her skin, biting down softly. Hears her gasp again. "I—died? In your nightmare? You thought you killed me?"

Fuck, she's so warm, so soft, so real beneath his fingers, and her skin tastes so damn good. If this is the dream, if this is the lie, if this is his madness compensating for the horrible thing he's done, then he doesn't care. He doesn't want to return to sanity if this is how madness feels. He never wants to feel that way again.

"Soul." Tightening her grip in his shirt, she does the unthinkable. She pushes him away. Not completely, just enough so she can look into his eyes, but from her expression, it's clear she can't believe she did it either. "Soul, stop. This is real. This isn't some dream, and you didn't hurt me. You're alive. We're both alive. Okay?" When he doesn't respond, only stares, still so consumed with the sight of her speaking and moving and breathing that he can't seem to properly function, she repeats, very softly, " _Okay?_ "

"Okay," he whispers. Chokes. His vision starts to blur again, and he fucking hates himself for it, how weak he's being. He feels her cup his cheek against the wet streaks there, her touch so warm and gentle and soft.

"Oh, Soul," she says sadly, and that's when he breaks. "Oh, Soul," she whispers again into his hair as he crumbles into a pathetic heap in front of her, crushing her waist, tear-streaked face buried into her lap. "Baby, shh, it's okay. I'm here. You're okay."

"I killed you," he chokes out into her thighs. "I _killed_ you. It felt so real. You were _dead_."

"I'm fine," she assures him softly, running her fingers through his hair. "I'm right here. You would never hurt me, and I would never leave you, you know that. I'm not going anywhere. Do you understand?"

He tightens his grip at her waist. Buries his face deeper into her legs, firm and warm, and inhales like this is the first breath he's taken all year. "I can't live without you," he whispers, so quietly that for a moment he thinks she couldn't possibly hear him.

But her hands freeze in his hair. She pauses in breathing, long enough that he grips her tighter in a panic before she exhales again and resumes her petting, whispering, "You won't ever have to."

It takes a long time before Soul has calmed down enough for them to separate, and even then he seems unable to take his eyes off her, like he's terrified this is all another illusion or a dream and he'll wake up to find that she's disappeared.

The entire time, Maka is the pure picture of patience, something he'd almost forgotten about her in the past couple weeks as she'd been so zealous and impetuous with her affections. But this—this is all her. She'd been patient with his intimacy issues from the moment they met, been patient with Crona as they struggled through social situations during their brief time at the academy, been patient with Kid as he mourned the loss of his father while trying his damndest to be the best Death God he could possibly be.

She could rush him—she probably should, considering the demon they were hunting could be running farther and farther away with every passing second—but she merely continues to brush his hair and croon soft reassurances as he struggles to regain his bearings after the worst experience of his life.

Funny that he'd been so worried about her being hindered by her curse when that curse probably saved both their lives.

"Better?" she asks softly. One of her tiny, powerful palms cups his cheek. He presses his hand over hers, breathing deeply.

"Better," he whispers. "Now come on. We have a demon to hunt."

-x-

That night, when they're back in their apartment and the nightmare demon is long dead, Soul has a hard time falling asleep.

Maka had passed out almost immediately, more exhausted from the battle and emotionally draining back-to-back experiences that he knows she'll ever admit. For Soul, sleep always comes later, but it's different tonight, far more difficult than usual, and the reason has everything to do with the unconscious girl against his chest.

If this day has taught him anything, it's that he can't live without his meister. It's something he's always known, really, ever since the first time he was faced with the choice between his life and hers and realized there wasn't any question what he'd sacrifice for her—but there's a difference between knowing something is true and feeling it firsthand.

That brief, horrifying moment in his nightmare had nearly driven him mad, even though he's supposed to have the black blood under control and hasn't felt that way since the Battle on the Moon. So if he nearly fell off the edge at the mere fear of losing his meister, how the hell is he supposed to deal with losing her for good?

Because he's going to. He knows he is. The moment she's snapped free of the curse and realizes how fucking selfish he is, how could she possibly want to stay with him? Or worse—maybe she'll just feel awkward, knowing how he really feels about her when she doesn't truly feel the same way, and their partnership will break because of that.

Soul honestly can't imagine what would be worse: having her leave him because of his feelings or having her pity him for them.

Either way, he'll lose her. He'll lose her, and he won't be able to breathe. He'll lose her, and she'll find someone else—another best friend, another partner, something _more_ —and all those dreams and fantasies and desperate _needs_ he feels when he looks at her, they'll become someone else's reality. Someone else's truth.

Just the thought of her being with anyone else like this, looking at anyone else the way she's looked at him these past couple weeks, so filled with open love and trust and adoration—it makes him feel like he's drowning in cement.

He can't watch her hold someone else's hand and retain his ability to breathe. He can't see her kiss someone else and still want to live. He can't sit at home in an empty fucking apartment with her empty fucking room and imagine her being with anyone else, curled up against some other lucky bastard's chest, smiling up at him with that smile he'd fucking die for, all soft and kind and so fucking understanding. He can't. He _can't_. He's so fucking selfish, and he _can't_.

He doesn't realize he's tightened his hold around her body until she starts to stir in his arms. He immediately loosens his vice grip, feeling guilty for waking her but also secretly, selfishly grateful he's no longer alone to stew with his thoughts, which only makes him feel guiltier.

"Soul?" Her eyes are sleepy, half-lidded. So fucking sweet.

"It's fine," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, Maka. Go back to sleep."

But her soul is already blooming and curling against his, needy even in her drowsy state. Like it's a habit, a silent gravitation. Something she does without even realizing it.

He can feel her blink more deeply when she feels the weight in his soul that he's too wound up to hide, and there's an awareness that bleeds into her veins, an understanding, but instead of the pity or exasperation or even concern he is expecting, he feels only warmth. Tender, soothing affection.

She traces his jaw, and his cheek, to the outline of his lips. He takes her fingers in his and kisses the pad of each, one by one, softer than feathers. Her expression is so gentle, and he—he is so in love with her he can't think.

"Hi," she whispers.

His chest is full. So full. "Hi," he breathes back.

And _that_. That look right there. That smile without smiling, that unadulterated adoration in her gaze— _that_ is what he can't live without, can't imagine her giving someone else.

He may reject her advances when they waver into indecent waters, but he never denies the way she looks at him, the way she speaks to him, the way her whole world seems to revolve around him like she's never wanted anything else. He can grumble and growl and complain all he wants, but he's not fooling anyone. He's been soaking up in her affections like the needy little gremlin he is, and he's grown so used to it that he doesn't know how he'll survive when it's gone.

Her hand presses into his cheek, pulling his gaze back to earth. To _her_. Her brows are furrowed. "Soul?"

He opens his mouth to tell her not to worry about it but instead what comes out is, "What was your nightmare about?" When her frown deepens, he feels blood rush to his face as he backtracks hastily, "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I was just… I mean, we both know what I dreamed about, what my biggest fear is—" He was certainly a big enough baby about it when she pulled him out of it. "—but we didn't talk about yours. And you, uh, came out of it pretty quickly or whatever, so it must not have been too bad, right?"

Jade eyes dim slightly and Soul has never felt like a bigger idiot. "Yeah, you're right. My fear was silly, especially compared to yours. Not even worth mentioning."

His eyes bulge. " _Maka_. That's not what I meant."

"But it's the truth." She stares at his chest, unwilling to meet his eyes for only the second time since she's been spelled, and the fact that he can miss the color green this much when he's spent so much of his life without it is pathetic. "I was… I was inconsolable at the time, and looking back now, it seems stupid compared to your fear. Trivial. But I've always been the weaker one, so—"

"Maka." He can't believe his ears. " _No_."

She doesn't meet his gaze. "It doesn't matter. It's done, and it doesn't matter."

But he can't let this go. "Was it… something to do with me?" he ventures tentatively, trying to think of what her biggest fear would be while she's cursed like this. "Did I do something? Or wait—was it about me cheating on you? Because even though we're not technically together, you know I'd never—"

She's shakes her head quickly, blond hair ruffling against the pillow. "No, of course not. I know you wouldn't do that me, Soul."

"Then what—"

"I dreamed that you left." She says the words so quietly, so tensely, like she's ashamed of them—and that's when Soul understands. Because he should've known.

Despite what most people think about her, Maka isn't scared of falling for someone like her father, not really. She can sing her distaste for the male species all she wants, but when it comes down to it, Maka Albarn has the biggest fucking heart he's ever known.

A lot of people tend to write her off as a total stickler for the rules, snappy at newcomers, and closed-off to those she doesn't trust—which is pretty understandable considering how she comes off to those who don't know her—but that's not her at all. Just because she prefers books over basketball and studies hard for school does not mean she is your typical straight-laced goody-goody. She's all impulse and feelings, always acting more based on emotion than logic, and she is decidedly Not a Rule Follower.

She is the opposite of a rule follower: reckless, impulsive, brash. Insanely stubborn and victim to her own emotions.

But she's also kind, and open, and so damn good without actively trying to be something she's not. Maybe she does have a vendetta against perverted men thanks to her father as well as a strong disapproval for people who don't give their all, but she's not closed-off at all. Her soul is actually far too open to trust sometimes that it makes her cynical demon weapon tense.

Her biggest issues stem not from the fear that someone won't love her enough to be faithful, but that someone _will_ love her and still decide that her issues aren't worth staying for. Her biggest insecurities have never been about other people. They've always dealt with her own lack of confidence; her own crippling misconception of self-worth. She's so fucking hard on herself about every fucking thing, and Soul hates it, the way she sees herself, the way he's made her see herself, the way everyone seems to think she's less than she is.

She isn't afraid that Soul will be like her father. She's afraid that _she'll_ be like her father—openly in love and failing to be good enough even when she tries her best—and Soul, like her mother, will decide he doesn't love her enough to stay.

" _Maka_ ," he says, and he's so fucking tense because he's never been good with words and he's never hated himself for it more than he does in this very moment. "Maka, don't be stupid."

She flinches. "Don't you think I'm trying? I told you it was dumb. You're the one who pushed me to tell you in the first place!"

His eyes widen. "Wait, no, I didn't—fuck, that's not what I meant!" He grabs her wrists when she tries to pull away from him, struggling with her for a brief moment before he rolls his body on top of hers, pinning her to the bed. She could easily throw him off if she wanted—his strong, brilliant, beautiful meister—but she doesn't, instead turns her head to the side so her tears will fall onto the pillow instead of in front of his face. "Maka, look at me."

She turns.

"You are the single most frustrating person I've ever met." She instantly tries to struggle away again, but he only sighs and rests his forehead against hers, making her still. "Seriously, I don't think my blood pressure has ever been this high until you became my partner. It's like you reserve so much of your brain function for tests that you don't have anything left for anything else. It's absurd how someone as smart as you are can be so fucking stupid sometimes."

She looks ready to murder him with her eyes. "Your point?" she grits out.

He visibly fights a smile. "My point is that even though you make me want to rip my hair out half the time, I still fucking love you and I've never wanted to be around someone as much as I always want to be by your side. That's something that hasn't changed at all in the past five years, and it's not going to change. Ever. The only way we'll ever be separated is if _you_ leave _me_ , not the other way around. Do you understand?"

The murderous intent flees like the wind, replaced by a wide-eyed shock that's so fucking adorable he wants to nibble on her cheeks. "Did you just say you love me?"

"Hey, not all of us are I-love-you whores, you know. Some of us like to be romantic about it or some shit. Wait for the right moment. Probably during the aftermath of an argument."

"It's the spell!" she defends herself, then seems to realize what she said and they both burst out laughing.

Things escalate from there as Soul teases her as much as he can before she turns the tables back around and pounds his tomato face to hell. At some point, he blows a raspberry against her stomach. She nearly kicks him off the bed. He tickles her, and they wrestle, and she wins, of course—she always does—and she laughs so hard she cries.

When they're like this, it's so easy to imagine it's real. That she really loves him and he's strong enough to tear open his walls and admit he loves her back.

But it's not real—it's a curse—and this train is on a track leading to a dead-end, speeding so fast and fiercely that they couldn't stop it if they tried. Soul isn't even sure he wants to.

They're bound to crash and burn, to hit the wall and explode into a thousand, tiny, indecipherable pieces, and Soul is going to be left with scars far greater than anything either of them has had to deal with before, but he doesn't care.

Just this once, he'll allow himself the luxury of living in the moment.

After all, there will be plenty of time for breaking when she's gone.

* * *

It happens at breakfast.

They're bantering over the kitchen table, Soul faking scowls even though she's adorable in his clothes and her scolding him for nothing even as she stares at him with such heart eyes he can't cool his face. He fries the eggs while she makes him coffee, serving it to him in that stupid pink bunny mug she got as a gag gift and wearing the most deceptively innocent expression known to man.

When they finally sit down to eat, he kisses the top of her head before he takes a seat. Maka doesn't even blink.

They've officially hit peak domesticity. The thought, oddly, makes him feel very warm.

But then there's a faint ringing sound coming from down the hall, and they both pause as they glance up in question. Maka tilts her head to the side. "Is that… the mirror?"

"Kid?" Soul guesses.

"No, Jesus."

He makes a face. "Brat. Just for that, you have be the one to get the call."

Rolling her eyes, Maka stands to kiss Soul's cheek—which he half-heartedly attempts to swat away even as he blushingly accepts it—before she bounds off towards the bathroom.

The ringing stops. Soul stares at his sandwich. He should probably take a bite of his breakfast bagel now otherwise it'll get cold and he hates wasting food—though, if he's being honest with himself, temperature has never mattered to him as long as it's edible—but he can't. His stomach is clenching. It's suddenly very hard to consume oxygen without hyperventilating, so naturally he stops breathing altogether. Preventative measures, if you will.

And then, from down the hall: "Soul?"

_No_. "Yeah?"

"We need to head to the school. They found the witch."

-x-

The Death Room seems solemn when they arrive, but Soul knows that's just his mind.

As they walk up the path leading towards Kid's main operating quarters, every step feels heavier than lead. Maka doesn't seem bothered at all—in fact, she's practically bouncing with excitement—but Soul has to clench every muscle in his body just so he won't tremble.

_Please don't let it be the right witch_. _Please don't let it be the right witch. Please don't_ —

"FINALLY!" Black Star booms when they arrive at the platform. "Took you mortals long enough to get here. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you two nerds were doing something productive with your time like getting it on or some shit."

To his left, Tsubaki lets out an apologetic sigh. Kid's face is unreadable as ever.

And behind them, locked up in a magic-restraining cage, is the red-haired woman they'd been looking for.

_Damn it_.

The thought alone makes his self-loathing increase tenfold. How fucking selfish can he be that he'd hope she'd stay cursed just so he'd never have to lose her? Lose _this_? What kind of fucking partner could think that even for a second?

The witch perks up at the sight of them, sitting up straight in her cell. While she'd been lounging lazily against the back when they'd arrived, she actually rises to her knees now, leaning forward, her slitted eyes bright with interest. "Well, well, isn't this a pleasant surprise. She's still cursed?"

"Of course she's still fucking cursed," Soul growls. "You've been hiding for—"

"No, no, you misunderstand what I meant. I'm simply surprised you managed to hold out this long. Considering the strength of your feelings for the girl, I assumed you would've taken her to bed the first day. Surely she's been insistent."

Soul tenses. "I would never take advantage of my meister like that."

"I doubt it would be taking advantage if she's the one begging for it on her knees."

What the hell is wrong with people these days? "It's. A. _Spell_ ," he grits out. "You know better than anyone that her true feelings aren't the same. I know you seem to have compromised morals and all that, but you should at least _understand_ the difference between right and wrong."

The witch's brows shoot up her face. She flicks her wide eyes to Maka, then to Kid, then back to Soul, before she throws her head back and laughs so loud that her voice echoes throughout the large, open space. "Oh, how lovely," she manages to say after she gets a handle on her hearty laughs. "This is far more amusing than I could've anticipated."

"Maybe it's the decent human being in me, but I don't find playing with people's emotions that funny."

She simply smiles. "You're sweet, darling, but hasn't anyone ever told you? Nice guys always finish last."

"That's enough," Kid cuts in, voice as cold and flat as ever. "This is no time for games, and I'll warn you my patience has long since expired. I assume you know why you're here."

With a sigh, the witch leans back in her cage and eyes them all like they suddenly bore her very existence. "You want me to reverse my spell, though I don't know why you went through all the trouble to find me. All it would've taken to negate the curse was a little under-the-covers magic. Probably wouldn't have even taken that long, from the looks of it. The scythe boy reeks of a pining virgin."

Ouch. Well, she's not wrong, but still—no one should be allowed to comment on his nonexistent sex life but him. Although his friends certainly haven't gotten the memo.

Kid's expression tightens. "Stop talking and start working. And don't even think about trying anything funny. If you harm even a strand of hair on Maka's head, I promise you that incarceration for your crimes will be the least of your worries."

"What, no fair trial and order? No innocence until proven guilty?" The witch blinks innocently. "I thought we were supposed to have the same rights as other humans, but last I checked, even the most abominable mortals got a chance at a fair investigation."

Maka steps forward, and the determination and absolute lack of fear in her eyes makes Soul's blood sing. "Kid and I are working on the details, but you're right—you do deserve to be tried just as equitably as anyone else. And you will be; we aren't cruel. Your name isn't on the Reaper's List, so you're still under our protection as long as you remain on this earth. But just because we promise you fairness does not mean you won't be held accountable for your actions. That's not how this works."

At that, the witch smiles, and she eyes Maka with something like—affection? No, that's not right. Appreciation. _Respect_. "You'll vouch for me, a lowly little witch, even after I've harmed you?"

Maka shrugs. "Don't look at me; Kid is the benevolent reaper. Any mercy I exhibit is on his behalf. I'm just here to carry out his will."

The witch glances around at each of them for a long moment—thinking, calculating, waiting—stopping only when her gaze lands on Soul. Her lips start to spread in a devious smile, and Soul can feel his intestines twist into a painful knot.

"Fine, I'll play," she says coyly. "I'll reverse the spell. But the scythe boy has to be the one to ask for it."

Soul doesn't need Maka's perception to feel the confusion flit across the room. "What?"

"If the Last Death Scythe wants me to override his meister's feelings for him, he's going to have to beg—and he's going to have to mean it. _Want_ it."

Black Star bellows a laugh. "Please. No one wants this dumb spell done and over with more than Eater over here. Trust me, lady, if you're trying to trip us up, it ain't working."

"Star," Tsubaki murmurs, but her meister merely gestures at Soul with an expectant look.

"C'mon, bro. Just tell the damn witch to use her freaky magic and change Maka back to normal so we can get this all over with and you two nerds can go back to your pathetic pining from afar."

Maka makes a face. "Star, you're an ass."

He waves her off like a fly. "Yeah, yeah, carpe diem, c'est la vie, jump the gun, or whatever."

"That's not—jeez, can you stop saying stuff like that? I know you're doing it on purpose!"

The assassin's expression is deceptively innocent. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Meanwhile, the witch hasn't taken his eyes off Soul, and Soul hasn't been able to unfreeze since the moment she made her request and the bitch knows it. She _knows_. He might have everyone else fooled that he has Maka's best interests at heart, but this sneaky witch can see right through his manufactured good intentions and recognize that he hasn't been telling the truth at all.

He may not want to take advantage of Maka, but above all, he is far more terrified of undoing the spell and losing her for good.

"—just do it already, I'm not sure what the fuck you're waiting for—" the assassin is grumbling, but Kid silences him with an extended hand.

"Black Star." Star instantly shuts up. The reaper stares at Soul with these deep, unreadable, inhumanly gold eyes, and Soul wants to fucking drown because he's so fucking pathetic and he knows his friend sees it, too. Something like a warning—no, disappointment? Pity?—fills the Death God's gaze, and Soul is so tightly wound up that he feels like he might burst. "Soul—"

"I know," he blurts out. "I _know_ , okay?! Just—fuck, I can't—just give me a fucking second, I need a fucking minute—Jesus, I can't— _goddamn it!_ "

"Soul?" Maka's expression is a combination of wild confusion and blatant concern. She frowns tentatively as she approaches him, crinkling the smooth, lily-white skin between her brows that he has made a recent habit of kissing, and he feels his limbs disconnect. He feels his chest fucking break. He surrenders all control to his overwhelming distress as he throws all caution to the wind and crosses that line from being a little self-centered to being truly selfish as he grabs her by both sides of the face and crushes his lips to hers.

To her credit, there's only a brief gasp of hesitation before her hands are tangled in his shirt and she's kissing him back. Wildly, unrestrainedly, completely without reason. He pushes and takes and she has to hold onto him to keep from falling, but it's still not enough.

There's no way she can know what's going through his chaotic mind—she thinks too highly of him and trusts him far too much—but she doesn't seem to care, because that's not her. She's not selfish like he is. She'd give him anything he wants without question, without asking for anything back, simply because it's him, and that kind of power that he holds over her like this—hell, even when she's not cursed, because she'd still give her life for his then—it's _dangerous_.

No person should be able to hold that much weight above someone else. That's not healthy. That's not balance. He doesn't fucking deserve it.

But if he's already this selfish to have been soaking up in her affections, he might as well kiss her one last time before she never lets him touch her again.

When they break apart, he refuses to look at her, even though he can feel her hurt and confusion, her open concern. Instead, he crushes her in his arms and buries his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet smell of sunset and lavender and _Maka_ as he whispers hoarsely, "Okay, now, do it now."

She shifts, trying to get him to look at her. "Soul, wait, I—"

"I said, DO IT NOW!"

There must be some sort of exchange he doesn't see, some sort of approval that the reaper gives to the witch, because the next thing he knows, Maka is gasping in his arms. Her entire body seems to pulse with heat, and he can feel the remnants of the magic pulse through her and around him, can feel the way she trembles as her psyche is unraveled with the curse and put back together again the way it had been before.

He can feel the exact moment the spell is reversed because her entire body stiffens against his. Her hands, which had been twisted in the front of his shirt, release him. Drop to her sides.

"Soul?" Her voice is tentative; confused. Her shoulders are rigid. "I—what's going on? What am I doing here? Did something happen?"

His.

Gut.

Shreds.

For a moment, he can't breathe. He can't think. Then, regaining control of his limbs, he squeezes her tighter for a brief instant—just one more time, one last time—before releasing her and whirling around to storm out of the room.

He couldn't watch the love for him drain out of her eyes as the witch worked the spell, and he sure as shit can't look at her now that she'll no longer be staring up with him with the warmth and affection he'd grown so used to. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at her the same again.

"Wait—Soul! I—"

"Let him go, Maka," Soul hears Kid say quietly. "These past few weeks have been incredibly hard on him. It's best to give him some time first. I promise I'll explain everything in a minute."

" _Weeks?_ But I don't—I don't understand! Kid, what's going on? What happened? Why is Soul—"

Her rising confusion and hysteria fades in the background with every step Soul takes away from the Death Room, and despite the overwhelming urge to go back and comfort his meister while she's so obviously confused, he doesn't.

He keeps walking.

-x-

The first time he ran away, he was five years old.

His father hadn't yelled at him this time. He hadn't even bothered. He simply looked down at his small, pathetic, genetically screwed-up son with such blatant disregard that he might as well have slapped Soul across the face—which he did, eventually, when they found Soul, tired and cold and hungry in an alley, two days later.

It took them _two whole days_ to notice he was missing. And that was only because his tutor reported that he'd been missing class.

That was the moment Soul realized that he'd never be good enough, no matter how hard he tried.

But he never stopped running. Never stopped ducking out of parties at the first opportunity or avoiding people's eyes even in rare moments when they spoke directly at him instead of about him. It was pointless, really—no one but his brother even cared when he left except to point out how it made their family look to outsiders—and yet Soul couldn't seem to stop.

Every time he ran, he ended up somewhere worse than his cold castle of a home. Feeling lonelier than ever, more forgotten than he'd ever been. As he grew older, he wondered why he even bothered. Why he kept trying. He had a roof over his head and he had a family. A lot of people weren't that lucky. Did he really think he'd ever find any place better than this?

Then, when he was twelve, he discovered he was a weapon.

He fled to the DWMA within the next forty-eight hours.

For the first couple weeks, it was the same as all the other times. He felt lost; out of place. He had no idea what the fuck he was doing. Disappearing into the wind seemed like a good idea in theory, but moving to a new city and a new school where he didn't know a single person and had no idea how to care for himself—it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine and happily ever afters. The disillusion and cynicism quickly seeped in.

But then one day, this one girl—with blond pigtails, a bright smile, and the prettiest green eyes he'd ever seen—approached him out of nowhere. Said she heard he was a scythe and wanted him to be her weapon.

At first, he thought it was a trick. A fluke. No one had ever wanted him before. No one had ever cared. But he went along with it, because he had nothing better to do, because he had nowhere else to go, because he was already losing hope—and he knew he could always run away again if it didn't work out. Or if he drove her away first. Either way.

But he didn't run. And she didn't leave. She was stubborn, and self-righteous, and way too fussy for her own good, but he didn't dip the second things got tough. He wasn't sure why; it wasn't like being her partner was easy, and half the time, it felt like she hated his guts.

It was a long time before his mind caught up with what his soul already knew: she didn't hate him at all. He was rude, and lazy, and a constant disappointment—just as he'd been to his father and everyone else he'd ever known—but this girl, this girl who had no blood ties to him, this girl who had no responsibility to deal with his mess, this girl who held more ambition in her left pinky than he did in his entire body and was far brighter than any person had a right to be—she cared about him anyway. The broken, skittish wreck that he was. She wanted better for him, and for her, he wanted to _be_ better.

And so he stayed with her. He never wanted to be without her.

It was the first time he'd ever understood what it meant to have a home.

-x-

By the time he makes it back to their apartment, he is ready to break.

The whole ride home is a blur of familiar streets and suffocating winds, and when Soul finally stumbles into his room like a goddamn drunk who doesn't know how to handle his liquor, he wants to bury his face in the mattress and scream.

Instead, he stares at the place where he'd been cuddling with his meister hours earlier and wonders how the hell things managed to get this fucked up this quickly.

Chest feeling like it might burst, he grabs the closest pillow and throws it across the room with a choked roar. It's a good thing his desk is just there for show because otherwise he would've knocked off a shit ton of crap in his fit. Unsatisfied, he grabs the other pillow and chucks it at the wall this time, slightly more satisfied by the dull thump, but it's still not enough. _None of it is enough._

He crumbles to the floor, back against his bed, and grips his hair above his knees. He wants to yell but his throat is stuffed with cotton. He wants to cry but he's numb in the stage where his limbs are prickling with a thousand needles as they waver in the painful limbo that exists between being asleep and awake.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now? Does he pack his shit up and leave? Will she ask her to? Will she be angry? Uncomfortable? Embarrassed? Upset?

Or does he do nothing? After all, it's not like she remembers what happened.

The thought makes his chest seize the same way it had when she first unraveled in his arms. Of all the ways he'd imagined her coming out of the spell—some possibilities admittedly more hopeful than others—he never once thought that her memories would be wiped completely. He expected fire and rage, maybe even some disbelief or tentative acceptance, but never _nothing_.

It'd be one thing for them to argue about his pathetic feelings for her, no matter how much he hates loud confrontation. It's another thing completely to have her be returned to her normal self and have no memory of the past couple weeks.

Maybe he should feel like this is a gift of some sort, cruel and unusual as it may be. This way, depending what Kid decides to tell her, Soul could play it off. Pretend she was just under a messy spell and he's glad she's back. Pretend everything that happened in the past few weeks—the cuddling, the dates, the bonding, the blatant confessions—never happened at all.

Just thinking about having to go back to the way everything was before she was cursed makes him feel like his heart is being shredded into a million ragged pieces. He's a fake, but he's not that good. Not anymore. These past few weeks have broken him. _She_ has broken him. He doesn't know if he has it in him to pretend again.

But if the alternative is to confess for real and lose her for good? It's a matter of choosing demons.

A soft knock at the door makes his shoulders tense. How long has he been like this? Surely not long enough for her to have been filled in by Kid and make it all the way home on foot since he took his bike.

"It's open," he says dully, not turning around.

She approaches the way you'd approach a wounded animal, slow steps and withheld breaths. He expects her to kneel down next to him—has been bracing himself for it—and yet he still flinches the moment he feels her so near.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

"You ran out of there pretty quickly," she says, voice quiet. "Like the room was on fire. I don't think I've ever seen you move so fast." She doesn't have to ask him if he's okay. He's been reading between her lines for so long he knows her like the back of his hand, and she's been expertly maneuvering around his long silences that she knows better to ask when he's deflecting. Their friendship is loud, but Maka has always been so good with his quiet.

He's going to miss her so fucking much. "Kid told you what happened?"

"He did."

"And you really don't remember anything?"

"For the most part," she admits. "At first, nothing made sense and I was so confused at why everyone's soul seemed so strained, but now I'm starting to remember little things. Sort of like flashes? Like small clips from a movie. The witch said it'll probably come back to me eventually, but for now…"

Soul tenses. He wants to see her face, understand what that odd note in her voice is, but turning to look at her is a mountain he can't even think of conquering right now. "What do you remember?"

"Little things," she repeats in a whisper. "Us, holding hands. Me, making you carry me around on your back so I can glare at all your fangirls to back off." A small pause. "You, murmuring how much you love me while I pretend to be asleep."

His whole body is trembling, and he hates himself for being so weak. He's supposed to be impenetrable, her strong, steady weapon, and yet here he is, on the verge of tears at the mere notion of confronting his feelings.

What kind of fucked-up protector is he?

"So do you hate me yet?" He tries to make the words into a joke, but his throat is too hoarse to manage it. He stifles a choked breath instead.

Maka is quiet. "Soul, it was a lie."

He flinches. "That— _fuck_. Christ, Maka, do you really think I don't already know that?"

"No, not—not my feelings!" she says quickly. "The witch's curse. _That_ was the lie. Whatever she told you, whatever she made you believe—it wasn't real. It was a trick, probably to hurt you." He can feel the ghost of her hand reaching for his only to retract at the last second—further proof of how much the spell reversal has changed things already—as she whispers, "Soul, the curse didn't force me to return an unrequited love. It was an _amplifier_."

For a brief moment, he is frozen, thinking he's misheard her, but then his head is snapping to the side—and oh god, she's so close, and so fucking pretty with her wide green eyes filled with concern and affection still lining every inch of her skin—and he gapes a little, struggling for words, unable to speak. "Wait, _what?_ "

"It was an amplifier," she says again. "Or at least something like it. I'm not really certain about the details—I ran out of there the second I realized what had happened so I could come after you—but from what the witch had said before I left, she made it clear that she didn't even know how to craft a spell like the one we were expecting. Her expertise lies only in magnifying feelings that are already there, making it impossible to deny them or even hide them from those closest to them."

" _Waitwaitwaitwait_ ," he blurts out. "What are you saying? Does this mean—"

"Soul," she says, and she cups his cheek, eyes bright, expression tender. A look he never thought he'd see again. "You're such an idiot. How could you believe even for a second that I didn't really love you too?"

With that, she leans forward and presses her lips to his.

He's still gaping when she pulls away, the small peck just short of innocent—though nothing really feels innocent when Maka's involved and she's this damn close.

"Wait!" he blurts for what feels like the millionth time, because clearly all this pining has taken a toll on his vocabulary. "You can't!" He starts to scoop her up in his arms, ready to charge her back to the DWMA with guns blazing to threaten the witch to try again or he'll hack her head off. Something must've gone wrong or the witch tricked them again or she only pretended to reverse the spell or—

"Soul!" Maka's voice is half disbelieving laugh, half incredulous exclamation as she swats away his frantic hands. "Stop freaking out for a second and _look_ at me. Does it really seem like I'm still under a spell? What do I need to do—solve some ridiculous math problem or recite the alphabet backwards?"

No, because he's fairly certain Maka can do those things in her sleep, let alone while she's under a love curse. "That's what you said when you were _definitely_ cursed. How the hell am I supposed to know you're telling the truth now?"

"When I first met you, I thought you were going to be a lot of work," she says instantly. "Not just to get along with, but to be partnered with, too. I braced myself for years of struggling to keep a slacker in line, but I was willing to make it work because I wanted a scythe and I thought the sacrifice was worth it. But I had never been more wrong about anything before. You never brought me down, Soul—not once, not ever. You've always been the one thing keeping me afloat. The best decision I've ever made."

He doesn't want to gape anymore, so he forces out words instead. "What does that have to do with proving you're not still under a spell?"

"The cursed version of me was clearly so up your ass she could never even _think_ of admitting to a time when she didn't want to have all your babies. Do you believe me now?"

The look on her face is a mix of blatant exasperation over an underlying fondness and Soul remembers in this moment why he loves her so fucking much.

She can be more sarcastic that he is.

He kisses her then, soft and sweet, and when she beams after he pulls away, still more than a little shaky, he thanks whatever fucking saint he must've been in his past life to somehow deserve this girl.

"This is real?" he whispers, voice cracking. "I'm not dreaming?"

"This is real," she confirms gently. " _I'm_ real. And I love you so much, you big goof."

She bursts into a shriek of laughter when he growls and scoops her up in his arms, swinging her legs to the side so he can deposit her on the bed. He makes her laugh harder as he peppers growly kisses all over her face like the overly affectionate puppy they both know he is.

"You're a brat. An absolute menace to society," he growls. "Curse or no curse, you have my balls in a wringer and you don't even get it, do you? Do you even _care_?"

"Of course I care," she says, all too innocently, and Soul braces himself for the punchline as she continues, "I just happen to want your balls somewhere else."

His hips buck into hers, unbidden, and they both let out an agonized groan. Good to know he isn't the only one who's been suffering through crippling desire. Even through layers of clothes, he can feel her heat sear into him, feel her soul's yearning latch onto his, and he _wants_ with a ferocity that stuns him. Makes it impossible to think, to pause, to breathe.

"We should—" he begins hoarsely only to break off with a muted whimper when she wraps her mile-long legs around his waist and angles her hips into his. "I should—"

She tangles her hands in his hair, tugging just enough so she can bring his fiery gaze to hers. "Stop thinking," she tells him. "Just _do_. What do you want, Soul? Do you want me?"

"Don't be stupid," he whispers.

When his lips finally find hers, the sound she makes is purely of happiness. A relieved, contented sigh.

The few kisses they shared previously had been rough and desperate, so hurried because he was either in complete shock of what was happening or was so frenzied in his need for her that he couldn't even _think_ of patience. So scared that she might never let him touch her again that he wanted to inhale as much as he could before she was gone for good.

But now that he knows she's here to stay, he allows himself the luxury of taking his time. Worshipping her the way she deserves to be worshipped. Slow, heated kisses. Halting, needy gasps. He's taking the scenic route today and he's damn well going to enjoy it.

He keeps running his hands over her as if to make sure she's real, but when she lets out a breathy gasp and whispers for him to touch her, he knows she doesn't mean her waist.

At some point, he loses his shirt. He's not sure how. Maka's will just seems to override the entire universe, and what his girl wants, she absolutely gets. Soul would personally ruin the world to make it happen.

He's never really felt attractive before, despite his false adolescent confidence and the misguided fan club that seems to buy the act that he's cooler than he is. Those things have always been superficial; irrelevant. But when his girl stares at his bare chest with the kind of yearning and desire he's only ever dreamed about, his ego inflates about ten thousand notches, giving him the courage to openly stare back.

She's all bright eyes and parted lips; soft skin and trembling limbs as she clings to him. When he finally braves the storm and slides her shirt over her head, the way she turns her head to the side and shyly covers her breasts with her arms—it _hurts_ him. He'd give up his fucking soul to go back in time just so he can smack his teenage self upside the head for ever making her feel less than the goddess she is, but knowing that isn't possible, he simply pours everything he has into a kiss.

"God, Maka, you're so fucking perfect. How can you not see it?"

Rosy color dusts over her already flushed cheeks, and he almost forgot how fucking sweet she is when she blushes like this.

She wears pink so much better than anyone else.

Wanting to spread that glow as far as he possibly can, he trails kisses down her jaw, to her throat, to this spot on the base of her neck that makes her gasp like a girl unraveled. He sinks his teeth there, gently, teasingly, and when her hips arch off the bed, aching for more, he decides his hunger is greedy and he's going to take all he can get.

"Oh Death, Soul," she whimpers when his lips touch her collar. He cups one breast, sliding his thumb experimentally over the nipple that had hardened in contact with the cool air, and she throws her head back and groans like a woman unhinged.

Her sound of pleasure spurns him on because his tentative touches grow resolute, almost desperate, as he strokes every inch of her skin with his worshipping hands. When he licks her nipple, sucking it into his demonic mouth, her whole body trembles like she's been lit aflame.

He bites down—not hard enough to hurt, but enough that she cries out and jerks her hips up in a reaction she can't control.

"Fuck, Maka, you're so hot."

Desperate now, she fists her hands in his hair and pulls his lips up so she can claim them as her own. He kisses her back just as fiercely, his one hand pressing on her lower back so her chest is plastered to his, her perfect breasts pushed up against his sensitive skin. With a groan, Soul presses deeper into her and slides his hand over her hip, down her thigh, then back up under her skirt.

She gasps. A tremor wracks through her entire body. Soul's hand cups her ass, squeezing tightly, a silent way of asking for permission.

In an equally silent answer, she spreads her legs even more around his hips.

A deep, rumbling noise akin to a growl bubbles up from deep in his chest. This time when his hand slides over her ass, it's under her panties instead of over them. He knows it's such an insignificant amount of fabric but somehow the sensations are worlds apart.

"Soul," she gasps as his mouth latches onto her neck. Her head tips back and her lips part with pleasure. There are sounds coming out of her throat, maybe words but indecipherable, but the general gist it seems to be "yes" and "more" and "please" and "if you don't touch me right this second, I swear to Death I'll murder you myself."

He yanks his hand out to tear off her skirt. Or _slice through it_ is probably more accurate. He doesn't even mean to do it, is just spurred on by burning desire and lack of patience—because hell if he's going to touch her for the first time without a front row view of everything—but Maka doesn't complain about the demise of one of her favorite torture instruments so Soul takes that as a good sign.

For a moment, he has to drink her in, the sight of his sweet little meister lying beneath him in nothing but a pair of white lace panties and a look of pure desperation.

"Maka..." He doesn't know what he wants to say. He just knows he has to say her name.

She is not as keen on smelling the roses. "Please," she begs, only breaking off with a gasp when he kisses her hip over the fabric of her underwear. "Please," she repeats, desperate, incoherent. "No more teasing; I can't take it. These past two weeks have been the most torturous foreplay of all time, so can we skip it? Please?"

It takes an absurd amount of willpower to resist her, especially when she's demanding the thing that dreams are made of and moving her hips like _that_ , but he manages, somehow, anchoring his hands around her thighs to keep her from thrusting into his face.

"After," he whispers. "I want to touch you first. Will you let me?" As he speaks, he slowly hooks his fingers under the fabric of her underwear and pulls them down her perfect fucking legs. Once they're completely slid off her feet, his one caresses the skin of her thighs so gently he might as well be a feather, victim to the slightest breeze when it comes to her. His other hand remains firmly planted on her waist.

Not only has he been dreaming about getting his hands on her for years, but he knows he doesn't stand a chance at lasting more than three seconds once he's inside her and he'd like to get her off before he drowns himself in embarrassment.

Though her expression is a little hesitant and incredibly shy, she puts her own insecurities aside for him and nods.

She wasn't lying about how ready she was. She's so slick that his fingers slide effortlessly between her folds, so wound-up that the first touch makes her hips buck almost violently off the bed. She slams one hand against the mattress at her side, gripping the sheets in a vice grip, and the other she presses against her mouth so she can clamp her teeth down over the skin of her wrist to muffle her cries.

Having the previous night burned into his mind forever, he slides his fingers over the slick lips of her opening before easing one inside her just the way she had when she touched herself as he watched. He has to pin her hips down to keep from jerking too high off the bed, listening to her gasps as he works her rhythmically before adding another finger, then another. The third is a stretch, requires a harmony against her clit with his thumb and his tongue, but he wants her ready and bursting before he can even think of trying for more, and he'll play her song forever if that's what it takes to get her there.

But it doesn't take forever, because she's the most flawless fucking instrument he's ever laid his hands on and her music is the sweetest he's ever heard. She's nearly sobbing now, a mess of sounds without consonants and breaths without relief, and when she finally tumbles off the cliff, he's been following her so closely that he almost comes just from the sound of her crying his name.

For the first time in his entire life, he is thankful for his parents for forcing him to play the piano. Every concert, every recital, had all been practice for this. His grand show.

She's still panting when he crawls up her body to pepper kisses all over her skin, from her shoulders to her neck to those sweet, sweet lips he always sees in his dreams. He settles his weight over her, nearly groaning at the contact against her even through his sweats, and he rests his damp forehead against hers, whispering a series of probably very uncool things about how beautiful and perfect and wonderful she is, does she really want to do this or was it just the spell that made her want him? Is this residual desire? They can wait if she's not ready. Whatever she wants, it's hers. He'd wait for her forever is that's what she asked of him and he'd never give it a second thought as long as he gets to hold her hand.

Maka interrupts his babbling to roll him onto his back, tugging his pants down his legs and tossing them somewhere behind her before mounting his hips with a heady expression as she whispers, "Trust me, Soul, it wasn't the curse that made me want you this much," as she palms his dick beneath her.

He's always loved her hands—small and scarred, tiny yet deceptively strong—but there is now a special place in his heart for the feeling of those perfect little Maka hands wrapping around the bases of his dick and giving him one steady pump.

Uncool as he is, he nearly jumps out of his skin and instantly halts her movements.

Concern, mixed with a little insecurity, pulls her brows together. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "Did I do it wrong? I didn't mean to—"

"Nononononono," he practically slurs. "S'good, Maka. So good. _Too_ good. I'm just, uh, sensitive. Don't want to have to wait another ten minutes if my trigger goes off a little early, if you know what I mean."

"Oh. _Ohhh!_ " How can she be this cute, this red, after the way she just tried to manhandle his dick? "S-sorry!" she squeaks.

He is a tomato. "It's fine! Just, uh, if you still want—"

"I want!"

"O-oh, sweet, that's—that's cool. Then. Or." Christ, he's a fucking idiot. "Do we need to use… I mean, do you still have…?"

He knows she'd gotten an IUD when she joined the EAT class, a standard DWMA routine that had disturbed him back then and downright infuriates him now that he knows the implications. But he's not sure if she had it taken out or exchanged it for something else since then. They've never really had a reason to talk about her birth control before, and if he ever thought she was preparing to have sex with some other bastard, he probably would've been thrown in the dungeons for the murder of a classmate.

She bobs her head up and down and the motion is enough to make him dizzy. "Still good for another couple years, so we don't need to, um, use anything else. If that's okay with you."

"C-cool." Is there an appropriate segue between "fair warning, I'm probably going to blow my load at the slightest pressure" and "is it okay if I try to fuck you anyway with probably the most unsatisfying first time in all of history?" that won't make him want to bury his face in the ground?

"Can I?" Maka whispers, staring down at his dick with such desire on her lovely, artful face, and—oh yeah, that's it. That's the answer. His girl is so much better at everything than he is and he can't even bring himself to be mad because he likes it so damn much.

" _Please_ ," he practically wheezes. That is probably the last coherent thing to come out of his mouth before she gingerly takes his dick, slides her dripping slit along the length, before angling him inside.

From the thousands of times he imagined this, he expected the tightness and the wetness and the full-on marvel at the fact that any part of his body could fit into such a small, compact space, but he never knew to expect the _heat_. It sears into him, all molten flesh clinging to his ever nerve and slick, tight warmth enveloping the most sensitive part of his anatomy, and he's not sure if he's dying or coming to life for the first time but all he knows is he never wants it to stop.

He watches the place where they're connected, watches as her tiny, perfect body spreads itself to accept him, thinking that this might be the single most erotic thing he's ever seen in his life—until he glances up by pure chance and sees the look on her face.

There is nothing more arousing than the pinched look in her eyes, the way her lips are parted in a silent, breathy gasp, the way she watches him enter her with such concentration and desire as she takes him inch by inch. He nearly comes from that look alone.

Someone is groaning uncontrollably. He's pretty sure it's him.

"You okay?" he tries to ask. "Hurt?"

Whimpering, she shakes her head, brows pinched in the most unconvincing expression of all time, but before his stomach has a chance to drop through the floor, she shifts her hips slightly, enough to make her insides pulse and his whole body quake as she moans, "No hurt. Different. _Full_ ," before she braces her hands on his chest and starts to move.

And fuck, does she move. He shouldn't be surprised she can be like this. She's his flawless meister, a fucking dancer in her own right. She can bend and twist and drive the fucking world, and she ruins his with every torturous rock of her hips, every breathy gasp as she works his length inside her, deep, deep, deeper, then _more_.

This time their symphony is nothing but tangled groans and stuttered breaths of each other's name, each sound the other makes seeming to spur them on further. On pure selfish instinct, he shifts his hips slightly so she can fuck him harder, and something about the angle must brush against her clit or something because the cry she utters then is a fucking _explosion_ , her body losing rhythm completely as she shudders to a stop before she races again, trying to chase after a repeat of that high.

But it's too much, too late. She is too fucking mesmerizing for him to look at her for a second longer and not feel like he's going to burst—and there's no amount of disturbing images to keep him from falling because he's already done, consumed by gravity, begging and pleading and apologizing through gasps even as she soothes his shoulders and tells him it's okay, it's okay, go ahead, let go, she wants him to.

And so he does.

With one hand, he yanks her head down so he can not really kiss her so much as cry out into her lungs. His other hand grips her hip so tight he knows he must leave a bruise, forcing her to stop her tormenting movements as he presses his hips up even higher, as deep as he can possibly go, and explodes inside her, filling her in the most biological, primal sense, a sort of satisfaction that leaves him feeling weak and messy.

When he settles back to earth, he is a bumbling, gasping mess of a boy, and she calms him, his meister, sweet and comforting and so understanding even though he's the most pathetic human being on the face of the planet He wants to apologize for being such a disappointment, for not even lasting two minutes inside her let alone long enough to get her off, but his chest is so filled with lead that he can't open his mouth. He can't. He feels like he's about to cry and the overwhelming wave of emotions only makes it worse.

"Oh, Soul," she murmurs. She carefully lifts herself off him, both of them letting out twin hisses when he slips out of her, and she crawls up the bed. Considering he'd tossed the pillows in his fit earlier, she takes initiative and turns herself into one, leaning up against the wall and tugging him gently by the neck until his face is pressed up against her thin, toned stomach. He wraps his arms around her waist and exhales a shudder, never wanting to let go.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. He's not sure whether he's apologizing for finishing so soon or for being such a blubbering mess post-orgasm, but she doesn't berate him for either.

She merely strokes his hair, tenderly brushing her fingers through the messy strands, and whispers, "Shh, don't apologize, silly boy. You're good. I'm right here."

They stay like that for a long time, him shaking like a leaf in a storm as he clutches her waist and her stroking his hair like he's a pup who's afraid of the thunder. She's very careful not to move, clearly not wanting to scare him off, but she can't help the way her body shifts slightly. His head snaps up with concern.

"Are you okay?" God, what the fuck is wrong with him? He just took her virginity and she's the one comforting him. How pathetic can he be?

"I'm okay," she assures him before his mind can drag him on his downward spiral. "Just, um. Need to clean up?"

He doesn't want to move, wants to stay here with his face buried in her stomach and her hands in his hair as they cuddle until they physically can't cuddle anymore. But he's learned enough from Blair over the years through unwanted sex ed lessons to know that his responsibilities don't end as soon as he's no longer inside her. Taking care of his girl after the fact is part of his job, too. And damn if he's going to be a major disappointment twice in a row.

"Let me."

Soul leaves the room and reappears with a wet cloth. She blushes and looks away as he cleans her up, and it's a fucking miracle what that little bit of color in her cheeks does to him. After everything they just did, she still blushes like this. How fucking cute can she be?

"I'm sorry," he says, guiltily.

Her head snaps towards him, startled. "What? What are you apologizing for?"

"You didn't… and then I just…"

"Soul, it's okay. You got me before. And besides." She bites her lip, cheeks slightly pink. "I… I really liked it. And there's always next time, right?"

His chest is warm. So warm. Unable to help himself, he brushes her hair back from her face, reveling in how gorgeous she can be when she's bashful and freshly fucked like this. He presses a kiss to her head. "Next time," he agrees.

Her shy smile is everything.

* * *

Soul finds him on the rooftop at sunset.

Kid has been waiting for this. Soul has a feeling he's been waiting for this ever since Maka was first cursed. Maybe even before then.

The reaper stands in front of the stone railing, staring out at the vast city spread out before them, hands tucked behind his back. Perfectly straight, perfectly still. Every bit like the god he tries so hard to be.

Soul turns to lean his back against the rails and faces the school instead. "She wasn't lying, was she," he says. "The witch. And you knew it from the beginning."

There's no accusation in his voice. There's nothing to accuse. It's just a comment, quiet and straightforward, like he's talking about the weather and not the most life-changing few weeks of his life.

Because of that, Kid doesn't answer. It's just as well. Soul doesn't need to hear it.

When the witch had spoken about forcing an unrequited love, Soul's mind immediately went to himself because his self-esteem is admittedly much lower than he'd like to confess and he has a bad habit of always assuming the worst. And because he was so adamant about his beliefs, his friends went along with it, so when the spell was finally reversed, they agreed with Maka's assumption that the witch had simply been lying for kicks.

But they were all wrong.

The witch never lied. She'd been talking about Kid all along.

" _The baby reaper has done nothing more than eliminate my reason for fun,_ " the witch had crooned. " _That girl is a friend of his, is she not? I've heard they were close. I'll admit I hoped that the curse would bind them together, not the two of you, as I've heard that he's relied on her a lot during the first couple years of his tenure. But I should've known better. Not even the gratitude of a god can top a weapon's devotion for his meister._ "

Her intention had never been to trick Soul. It had been to distract Kid. She must've been watching the reaper, realized how he felt about Maka, and believed that by forcing Maka to return his feelings, she could manipulate him somehow. Control him. Influence him. The witch assumed from the way Maka supported him that she must've held some sort of affection for the Death God too, however small, and sought out to exploit it with an amplifier spell.

But what she hadn't realized was that Maka loved someone else more, so when the amplifier came into effect, it didn't influence how she felt about Kid. It didn't force an unrequited love into a full circle. It only increased how Maka felt about _Soul_ , which the witch realized once she saw how the demon scythe acted around his meister.

In hindsight, Soul should've realized it sooner. He always knew Kid had a soft spot for his partner. He just never had an idea how deep that affection went.

"Does Maka know?" Soul asks quietly. Had this been anyone else, he might've sounded cruel—but it's not anyone else, it's Kid, and Soul knows Kid doesn't feel emotions the same way the rest of them do.

"She… might suspect. But then, she was blind to _your_ feelings all these years so maybe not." Kid does not smile, and yet his lips are curved wryly as if he is.

It makes Soul's chest tighten for reasons he cannot explain. "And you… care for her? _Love_ her?" The words taste strange on his tongue.

At his side, he feels Kid exhale. It's a quiet sound, a mortal sound, and in this moment, before Kid even speaks a word, Soul understands how hard it must be for the reaper to admit to a flaw that is all too human, even as it's his humanity itself that is willing to lay his feelings on the line for the sake of a friend. "After my father died," Kid begins, then stops to clear his throat, to further straighten his spine, before starting again. "After my father died, everyone treated me differently. They walked on eggshells, never openly disagreed with me, supported every decision I made... But not Maka.

"She—she was fire. She was the same. She confronted me when I overreacted and yelled at me when I started pushing everyone away. She drove me to become better, when all I could feel was the weight of the world on my shoulders, when all I could do was hate my father for creating me and my brother the way he had, forcing me to fight the sibling I never knew, and then abandoning me to clean up the mess he left behind.

"I resent him often," he admits, "even though Liz and Patty try to remind me of a time when I didn't. Maka though... She understands. She understands what it means to have a parent who wants the world for her but keeps surrendering to fatal flaws, and she also understands what it means to have a parent who never thought of the consequences of leaving her behind.

"I should've known that she would be like that. Should've known it from the way she accepted Crona even after they executed one of the worst days of her life. Should've expected it. Maybe then I would've been prepared. But I didn't, and I wasn't, and she managed to be everything I didn't know I needed during a time when I tried so hard not to need _anything_ —and maybe it's unhealthy, the way I lean on her. Maybe it's unfair that I'm the god and she's the mortal and she's the one holding my world together instead of the other way around, but it's too late to stop it.

"I don't think I want her the same way you do, the same way a man wants a woman, the same way I've been told I should feel about someone I care about this way, but I do know that I want to be around her, all the time. She makes me feel warm; makes me feel alive. Everything is brighter when she's near, and some days I hate myself for seeking out the comfort of her soul in every instance I can't contain my emotions because I know there will come a time when she won't be around to be that for me, this steady rock I hold in such great esteem. But I can't help it." He closes his eyes briefly. Behind his back, his fingers clench and unclench. "I look to her, always. I want to hold her hand. I think she's radiant. Stunning. I think about her more than I'd care to admit."

Soul tries to swallow around the lump in his throat. "What does that mean then? Where do we go from here?"

Kid looks up at the sky. His eyes are very open, clearer than Soul is used to. He wishes they weren't. "I know she loves you," is all he says. "And for me, I couldn't ask for anything better. Because her heart chose someone who would give his life just to make her smile. Someone who can give her all the things I don't think I'll ever know how to."

"You're not defective for not wanting certain things," Soul says instantly. "For not understanding them. There is nothing wrong with you."

The reaper's eyes soften, molten gold rather than spun wire. "I appreciate you saying so, but I have a long way to go before I can accept it myself. It's the curse of being so mortal without having the privilege to be."

In the distance, birds are parting. The sky glows warm and fiery, bright yet somehow mellow in its comforting radiance. Back in their apartment, Maka is frantically trying to catch up on all the work she fell behind on since she was, in her words, "so busy studying Soul's ass while on witch-brain that she apparently lost her ability to study anything else."

Liz and Patty are probably lounging around at Gallows Mansion. Their other friends are scattered in their natural pre-mischief state. In this moment, it's just Kid and Soul, just a reaper and the Death Scythe he doesn't use, and Soul wonders if some gaps are just meant to be.

"I apologize," Kid says suddenly.

"Wh—?"

"This whole thing—the curse, Maka's injury, your suffering—it's because of me. The witch chose to hunt her because of me."

Soul frowns. "Shut the fuck up. Neither of us blame you. It's not your fault."

"I've made so many mistakes. I'm supposed to be a god, and yet I rely on my friends to keep me sane. What does that make me?"

"Human."

"That's the thing though, isn't it?" A wry twist of his lips. A blankness behind eyes that are far too vibrant to ever be mortal. "I'm not."

Soul merely shakes his head. "You are," he says firmly. "In all the ways that matter, you are. You're not your father, Kid. You don't have to do things the way he did. He might've believed that ruling on his own, separated from everyone else, was what worked best for him, but you don't have to be like him. Just because you have the strength to allow yourself to lean on others doesn't make you weaker. It just makes you different."

"But what if I'm not?" he asks. "What if my father was exactly where I was all those years ago, only to watch his friends and family die around him, time and time again, and _that's_ what caused him to be so closed off and untouchable when we knew him? What if I'm destined to follow the same fate?" Gold eyes tighten. "I don't think I'm strong enough to lose those I care about."

What he doesn't have to say is, _I don't think I'm strong enough to lose_ her.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Soul says simply. "Until then, we'll be right here."

Kid's expression is far from transparent. The two of them are alike in this way, apart from the obvious: they both have a default setting that makes it difficult for them to open themselves to others.

The only difference is that Soul is lucky enough to have Maka, and Kid is far too self aware to let her get closer than she already is.

"If you hurt her—"

"You'll use your freaky, undefinable Death God powers on me—yeah, I know."

"Actually, I was going to say I'll sic Black Star on you, but that works too."

Soul chokes on a laugh. Lifts one hand in the air between them. A tentative peace offering. "You're not so bad, you know that, reaper?"

Kid stares at his fist for a long while before he allows his face to soften as he hesitantly bumps it back. "Likewise."

The demon scythe does not wait for his friend to fall to an old symmetry habit as he walks away. He knows he doesn't need to. Kid is far stronger than he believes.

-x-

Maka hasn't moved from where he'd left her hours ago, still hunched over their dining room table with books scattered all around her and such severe tunnel vision that he's surprised she hasn't gone blind at this point.

Organized chaos. An intelligent mess. The epitome of his ridiculous meister.

That girl wouldn't know what moderation was if it hit her in the goddamn face.

"Oi, bookworm." Soul flips the cover of her current textbook shut, the edge narrowly missing clipping her across the nose. "Take a fucking break once in a while or you're going to rot your brain, alright?"

Typically, this is the point where she whines back at him even though she knows he's right and they get into a pointless, empty argument as he makes her tea and she tries to sneak a couple more pages in before dinner. He'll call her stupid, she'll get defensive, they'll banter well into movie night, and he won't ever want to be anywhere else.

Except she _doesn't_ argue with him like he's expecting her to. Instead, she beams.

"Soul!" she says, so happy and sweet it should be fucking illegal. "I missed you."

She tugs him down by the front of his shirt so she can give him a kiss, and by the time he pulls away, he has to cover the bottom half of his face, he's blushing so hard. "I-i-i- _idiot_ ," he blubbers. "I wasn't even gone that long!"

"Still missed you," she says sweetly, and by the gods, if this is going to be his new normal, he's not sure how long he's going to survive before he's permanently reduced to tomato paste.

She plants another quick peck on his lips for good measure before releasing his shirt and leaning back in her chair, stretching her arms high enough over her head that his mind has gone from one single thought to another, that new obsession having everything to do with her pushed out boobs.

"I'm starving," she yawns. "How long until dinner?"

Soul practically trips on his way to the kitchen, her bell-like laughs trailing after him as he goes.

It's only when he's nearly finished boiling the noodles that something horrible strikes him, and he whips around so quickly that he nearly elbows the pot off the goddamn stove. "Wait a fucking minute—it's not my turn to cook tonight!"

Her expression is deceptively innocent. "It isn't? Oops." She merely continues flipping through channels on the television, her ankles lightly crossing and uncrossing in the air as she hums to some ridiculous, far-off commercial tune they'll both probably be seeing in their dreams.

A low growl bubbles up in his throat. He channels his irritation into aggressively stirring the pasta.

This girl is going to be the death of him.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi and thank you so much for making it to the end of our terrifying mountain of a fic! it was meant to be a two-shot and rapidly escalated into this ridiculous monster without our permission, so please excuse the mess. we literally finished writing it this morning for our posting date and we’re sobbing as we hit “publish” because we had zero time to edit. we’ll be going through after work today (or maybe over the next couple weeks, because the holidays are Hell) and hopefully rework most of the mistakes. 
> 
> we hope you enjoyed it anyway! 
> 
> xo,  
> chloe & kallie
> 
> **bonus (edited 3/29/19):** we also did an AMA for this on the resbang bookclub server if you're curious about the crazy process that went behind creating this mess! you can find the abridged transcript [here](https://resbang-bookclub.tumblr.com/post/183703124218/ama-transcript-unrequited). 
> 
> **bonus no. 2 (edited 4/23/19):** the wonderful [illleashya](https://thepurplelolli.tumblr.com) did GORGEOUS fanart for this fic and we're??? still crying over it????? (how do we keep meeting the greatest humans through this fandom even when we're ten years late, we don't _understand_ , but we are SO grateful.) please go check out her beautiful art [here](https://www.deviantart.com/illleashya/art/Sleepy-Maka-794951812) and [here](https://www.deviantart.com/illleashya/art/Helpless-Maka-795327238). she also did a STUNNING two-paged comic of the reveal scene [here](https://www.deviantart.com/illleashya/art/Unrequited-Page-1-798848410) and [here](https://www.deviantart.com/illleashya/art/Unrequited-Page-2-798848686), which you will catch us sobbing over for the next 484972 years because it's everything we ever could've hoped for and more. make sure to send her and our artists some love. <3


End file.
